Is This The Worst Time To Kiss You?
by MujerN
Summary: The town calls him "Berserky" who likes to wander into convenience stores, rip into beef jerky, and gnaw on the sticks. Touch him, you'll feel the consequences. Since his father's death, he hasn't been the same. I would know. I'm the only one with a good view inside his windows. Edward 'Berserky' Cullen Jr. is my neighbor, and I remember I loved him once.
1. Chapter 1 - Neighbor

**A/N:** Thank you to **We love Mobward** contest, this was born, and for making this one of the winning one-shots. I'm. Still. Floored. Thanks to Frannie for pushing me to enter and for helping clean up this story.

If you haven't read it, well, this is a twisted story of an insane man and the woman who remembers she loved him once. Thanks for reaching out and asking if this would continue. It has, and it will. I don't know where this is going, but it'll go somewhere.

Here we go.

* * *

 **Is This The Worst Time To Kiss You?**

 **. .**

 **. .**

 **Chapter 1 - Neighbor**

He wears crisp white boxers. The t-shirt was once white, but now it just looks worn and yellow. The robe is not one you'd find in a store these days. The plaid is a mix of browns, yellows, beiges and whites. It hits his knees, but when he bends in the yard to do his morning exercise in socks and flip flops, it rides up. And just to give a nice little visual, he doesn't always wear those crisp white boxer shorts. The glory appears like morning, like looking into the sun, you have to look away. Not a bone of shame in that one.

The town calls him "Berserky" who likes to wander into convenience stores, rip into beef jerky and gnaw on the sticks in the middle of the aisle. No one would get near because if you did, you'd get whacked in the ear. Sharp and quick. It happened that day a few months back and to everyone's surprise. Duly noted.

Worst part was the middle schooler ran out the store with a bleeding eardrum, crying his eyes out. He was one of the worst school bullies who had made a few quiet classmates bleed, even run them out of town, family and all. So, it wasn't like everyone was going out of their way to run to his aid so quick, maybe just appalled watching all the blood running down his neck.

You could hear the mom yelling and running up the street, purse in hand, to press him to her Double D sized bosom. But everyone knows Ms. Cherrie is a bit of a problem in town, too—the badgering, cop-calling, nosy bitch you get as a neighbor. So, really, who was to say it wasn't a turn of karma?

We went about our day, but not before we made sure to watch Berserky casually leave the store, robe waving away behind him. He had a handful of unpurchased beef jerky and vacant eyes. We realized the severity of this situation. He could hurt anyone. He wasn't tamed.

Dad told me once, his tabs were taken care of by a rich uncle in the city. Berserky never did pay for an item he snatched up. Everyone seemed to be fine with that, ten-foot pole fine.

I saw the chaos walking to work. I had my eyes on little Bobby with the bleeding ear. I didn't notice Berserky walk by. When he did, his shoulder definitely connected with mine. I stumbled back and looked just in time to see those scabbed up knuckles of his make it through the nest of hair he had on his crazy head.

That was the third time he ever made contact with me. He never did bang at his head with fists and throw a fit; that only happened when others ran into him. And it was an easy mistake to make. He made sure to take up a sidewalk all to himself, zigzagging his way back home. Not because he was drunk or high on pills, though I'm sure he was. He zigzagged because fuck the world and get out of his way.

I'm not sure exactly the day Berserky became this... unhinged. I try to think back on it. The days past, in class, when I called him Edward and he'd respond. Sharp green eyes. Sharp jaw. Sharp wit. Like a whip.

Some say he didn't take his grandfather's passing well. My guess it's why he kept the robe. That thinned out cotton never left his grandfather's shoulders when he was home.

Some say it was when his mother died of a broken heart. No one was sure, but it was anyone's guess. Edward Cullen Sr. was tragically murdered on that fateful day, the bones and skin finding purchase on gravel as he was dragged. Some whisper, here and there years later, that they can still find strands of his hair between pavement cracks, woven in weeds. Thick bronze hair.

The Cullen men were the most fierce, brawny looking males in town. Their looks got them in trouble. Loving or falling for any one of them was like making a deal with the devil. That cut up body of Edward Sr. was still young. Never even saw the age of 40. In those cracks, not a single woven hair was gray. Bronze strong.

I didn't witness the scene. I don't remember much anymore. Everyone got an eyeful, though. That body tied to the bumper of a Continental like a new parade came to town. Every elderly, child, man and woman saw an unrecognizable man, naked and bloody. Some limbs missing. A warning to the family.

No, Edward wasn't well from that day on. That state of mind wasn't part of his daily life or surroundings. I would know. I'm the only one with a good view inside his windows.

Edward 'Berserky' Cullen Jr. is my neighbor.

…

It's Saturday. I'm taking it easy. It means I get to watch. Stake out. It's shameful, but I'm shameless. Jessica comes to visit sometimes and we sit at the table all morning or out back soaking up the sun. But she never once leaves here without taking a peek, too.

"You're obsessed," she said once. Yeah, I am. I want to figure him out. See the patterns. Document every move.

For a while I didn't care. For months when I moved in, the blinds were drawn and that big ol' house was dark. He was there. He inherited it. A two floor with a wrap around balcony upstairs, right off the master bedroom. I know where the cracks and the weak boards are. I've climbed the rigs a couple of times before. That was years ago. It's been so long I can barely see it in memories where dirty chucks, bikes and childhood bloody scabs reside. Now the house is old, faded and chipping away.

I left. Life was big and freeing outside of this stuffy town after high school. It's exciting when you're young, willing to thrive. Then you realize it was perfect where you started. With Mom gone and Dad off living with his new wife, I'm left with this big house and no real aim in life. No real aim aside from him outside my windows.

One day I woke up and there were no blinds in that mysterious house on this dead end street. It was startling. Edward. Alone. Just that single lamp illuminating his profile, morning and night. Never clicked off. A spotlight over his favorite chair. It became a routine to share breakfast, lunch and dinner with someone who didn't know where the world started or ended.

He was a different person and I never questioned anyone about it.

The mornings he'd wear boxers, I couldn't peel my eyes away. Sweat rolled down his chest as he pulled his body up a pipe. It was dug into the porch out back for pull-ups.

The appealing part of this... situation outside my window is that Edward—as I still liked to call him, the other name never sits well with me—is not a crazy old decrepit man. This enigma is as young as me and my friends. Edward is fit and quick as a panther. Under that robe and grainy clothes he is lean and built just like his father. Just enough tone and definition to make you wonder why his body hasn't failed him like his brain has.

Yes, shameful, but shameless. I watch him move on from pull-ups to sit-ups and jump rope in a mesmerizing routine.

For a second he looks focused, normal even, like I could go and ask for a cup of sugar or ask about his sister Alice and the rest of his large family. I never understood why they weren't there to keep an eye on him. Always alone. Him and his shadows.

The moments he seemed normal, calm, and peaceful, he'd quickly break the trance. Sometimes, after a few punches to a bean bag, he'd whip up scraps of metal left rotting around the yard and go nuts. He'd swing it this way or that, hitting anything in sight. He wouldn't stop until his hands would bleed. His tired body would barge into the house and plop on his recliner with a huff. Chest going, eyes dark and spent.

Some days his mood was lighter. He'd munch on snacks and let crumbs fall all over his chest and floor. Then he'd crawl around to find every crumb and sweep it right up. He'd make a perfect sizable sandwich and then segment the pieces at his chair and eat them one at a time.

He has a mint green rotary phone that sits by his chair. The curly cord reaches the floor, snaking under the vintage table. When he picks it up he barely moves his lips. Time and again it rings, day and night. The nostalgic shrill drifts through my window at night. He always picks up on the third ring.

I don't know who calls him so much or what he says. I wonder if it's Alice checking up on him. I guess it would make up for not being able to visit much. Her so busy raising four boys.

Since I've been back I haven't spoken to her. She was my best friend once. I didn't keep in touch with anyone while I was gone. I didn't even get updates from dad. He never really talked much.

I tell myself I should move out, find a cozier place in town, start new. This house is up on a hill along with his. The biggest pair with a view over everything. The new addition in the back makes room for a sunroom. There's a new pool in the yard dad keeps maintained all year round even if he isn't here. He re-worked my childhood bedroom. He broke down walls, put a tub under bay windows. I can't complain or give it away. How could I? My grandparents built this place.

So, I give in every night and just live. I lie in bed facing the lace curtains grandma sewed years ago. I wonder how delicate his mind is. Is it like the strands of the detailed silk, complicated yet fragile? What does he think about? Where does he go when he sits for hours on his chair and stares out windows?

Then, I'd feel it. That feeling you get when you're being watched. No fear or odd feelings about it. This house oozes so much energy from the past, I never fear moments like this. I just keep still in bed wondering what he's up to and why he's up so late. I figured I let it pass since I'm always staring into his windows, he can stare in mine.

He likes to walk in the dark, inside and outside the house. His evening strolls are lengthy and daily. After dinner I watch him leave the front door open to walk around the hill. He has a pattern. He takes a left until he's out of sight. Then, he hops over his fence to the back yard. He walks across it as if he's measuring the grounds with wide strides. He'd stroll between both our houses until he reaches the front. But as he does all of this, he sings at the top of his lungs. He knows every Frank Sinatra lyric. His baritone voice is a handsome melody. His hair's erratic in contrast.

Sometimes I can't help but join in and hum the familiar song. Sometimes I laugh just listening. Then, I laugh harder remembering the first few weeks I got here.

After taking laps in the pool one Saturday, the sky opened up. I begrudgingly climbed out and grabbed a towel. I looked up and he was standing on the porch roof of his house watching. He climbed out of a window. It irked me. His blank expression stared back, no rhyme or reason.

I quickly got inside, but no later did I feel a canon ball drop from the sky into the pool. I turned to look and he made the jump right where he was—boxers, robe, socks and all. His long body stretched out as it floated under droplets of hot summer rain. The fabric was bubbled and fitted against his torso. That trail of hair making it's way down skin colored shorts, under those cut hip bones of his. A rainbow arched over the backyard just in time. It looked magical.

He sighed and sang my favorite Sinatra tune, like he knew, to add to the perfect moment. I left him to himself, though I itched to join him. It was a sticky hot day. I couldn't blame him.

Those were moments I kept in the safety of our hill. No one would understand, especially when he was suspected of committing horrific acts. The Edward I knew wouldn't have it in him to take a metal pipe to a neighbor's spine. A dislocated shoulder and a bleeding gash on Mike's head. His wife found him on their yard. Broad daylight. Mike wasn't talking after that, literally and metaphorically. Everyone knew he had a gambling problem... and a history of picking up children off their path home from school in the '80s. No one liked him. They figured he had an enemy and gratefully left it at that.

But I knew. Charlie was a smart, observant man who would mention a few things. But he was also a close friend of the Cullen brothers, Edward's uncles. There are three still living. Edward's father was the oldest of the four. Then comes Carlisle, Emmett and Jasper, the youngest. They pay Edward's tabs at local stores, but they also make sure he lives easy. Probably pity.

Sometimes they visit, mostly Jasper. When Carlisle comes into town, a posse flanks him. All in tailored suits, expensive shoes and trench coats. Carlisle sits in the livingroom while the others pace the front and back of the house.

Usually, when they do visit, someone is missing weeks after. Men would abandon their wives and kids, not to be seen ever again. Charlie would say they weren't deadbeats, but beat dead and six feet under. All anyone knew was the Cullens were dangerous and never to be messed with.

The night before they found Mike, I was looking out my window from my dark room. I saw that pipe stuck in the back porch missing. That dark patch of ground turned over in his yard was suspicious. What had he done?

When morning came and the local station told the story, I knew. I was a silent witness shaking in her bones.

….

Alice comes to visit. The boys pour out of the car and they're already running around. She yells and reprimands like a chant from her lips. It's always there.

She climbs up the porch and she's already looking around at all the mess. Edward sees the kids and he becomes one. Alice barely says hello and gets going with laundry and scrubbing the floors. The big bucket of dark water rolls behind her as she mops. She yells and grumbles all the while at a passing child undoing all her work with his muddy shoes. The boys end up in the yard using sticks and scraps as swords. It only spurs Edward to do insane things like climb the porch and dive at them from above. He growls, he howls, they laugh hard and roll around trying it, too.

I itch to go, to tell her I'm home, to apologize. Her life is in abundance but upside down. Mine is nothing but a failure to launch and cowardly finding my feet again in my parents old house.

Before I find my courage she's already packing up the kids, wiping down countertops to leave. The house is spotless. Her one arm curls around Edward's neck where he sits in his chair, watching the boys collect legos off the floor. She says her goodbye with a whisper and a kiss by his ear. He nods. That's the only contact he gets from a human being. Probably ever. He seems just fine with that, even if he does look solemn after they leave.

When Jasper comes by it's a different scene altogether. They sit in the living room and they are calm and collected. A long conversation. Jasper is mostly quiet and nodding all the while.

I'm making lunch on a Sunday and catch my fifth glimpse of the event. On my sixth glance, Jasper and Edward look up and meet my eyes. A pang in my chest. I look away. _Fuck._ What was that? I don't attempt another look. I drag my ass back to the couch piled with files from work.

The sun seems to dim and dance over the living room walls suddenly. I turn to see a shadow by the front door outside. Even though I'm watching it happen, I jump from the scare. The doorbell rings. I try not to yelp aloud.

I use the window we always go to sneak a peek at whoever is at the front door. I pull the curtain strategically to let an eyelid flutter between the folds. Another eye stares right back. This time, I do scream.

"Isabella?" he calls out. "It's... Jasper Cullen." I roll my eyes and collect myself off the floor. I tighten the robe around me and reach for the doorknob. I'm red as a pomegranate. Maybe he's come to tell me to stop spying on his nephew, then pop my eardrum. I'm definitely shameful now.

He smiles. His complexion's tan and smooth where he's shaven. He's in his early fifties and damn handsome in a suit and combed back hair. My nostrils flare as his cologne wafts over the threshold.

"You just got back from Chicago, didn't you?" He drags his eyes from my head to toes. I can't speak, so I settle for a nod. He notices I'm not offering him to come in. He slowly stuffs his hands in his pockets where the tails bundle at his wrists. "Man, I haven't seen Charlie in quite a while. Where has that old beast been all these days?"

"I... um... he…he's not here." I stutter. He grins like it's obvious he isn't. I breathe a little. Compose myself. "Yes, well, he lives with Sue in… far away, for years now. I'll… tell him you stopped by," I say. Hint, hint. Good-bye.

But he doesn't catch. I step back when he invites himself in. I'm shaking now.

He turns in circles in the foyer, his eyes scanning the crown molding and the granite counter tops in the kitchen. The stairs going up are oak wood with white crisp banisters. He whistles low. "Fine looking interior. Charlie always did like his material things classic and well made." He peers into the living room. My heart is pounding. He turns to me and grins. "And makes classic beautiful looking things, too. You look a lot like your mother."

"How can I help you?" I push this awkward meeting to a purpose.

"My nephew there was telling me about the prettiest girl in town living next door. I wanted to say hello, welcome you back to the neighborhood." He nods. "And hopefully catch up with your old man." As he speaks he wanders the bottom floor of the house. I fidget. I follow him around helplessly as he steps into the dining area, opens the closet under the stairs and drifts to the back door of the sunroom. He takes it all in. Confidently. Like he's an officer in search of burglars.

"You don't mind, do you?" He gestures around him, excusing his forwardness. He asks permission after.

I square my shoulders, cross my arms at my torso and fix this real quick before it's too late. "Actually... I do. I've got a lot of work to do. Work week starts up again tomorrow."

"Of course," he says with a smile, but his slight chuckle says the contrary. I take it not many people say "No" to him. I escort him out, wishing with all my might he leaves. This man makes my skin crawl.

His shiny italian shoes step out over the threshhold and I breathe a little. His gaze is kind but that smirk has a tinge of malice. "I see the loan has been put to good use. He wanted to give his daughter the best," he says with a knuckle tap on the pane. "Can't blame him for being a sucker for porcelain rosy cheeks and eyes like his," he says about me.

I'm dumbfounded. He descends the porch and walks down the sidewalk. He never brings a car. He just disappears. This time, I wish he'd disappear for good.

I slam the door and march to the window. Edward is there, stoic, looking into my windows through his lashes.

…

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" I whisper over the phone, but what I really want to do is scream. Starbucks is full. I've found a spot for lunch nonetheless. People come and go. They don't stick around since there aren't many tables free.

" _Bells, it was long ago. Years. I've paid them back, with interest. It's nothing to worry about, baby doll."_ Dad is calm over the phone and I don't understand how this isn't a big deal to him.

"So, you do admit to making a deal with the Cullen brothers in the 70's for some money?!" My head is swimming.

" _Well, yeah, everyone was doing it then. It was tough times. Banks weren't helping. Your mother and I were young and... stupid. You were a newborn, we were completely out of our heads. We needed a little help."_

"How the hell did you pay it all back?"

" _Slowly, that's for sure. The Garage helped a lot. I was able to hire more mechanics, it was good for the town, for families,"_ he says. I'm quiet. I didn't think of it that way. Dad was never one to struggle in my time growing up. There was never lack of food in the fridge or empty gas tanks. I was one of the fortunate kids on the block. So, I get it. My shoulders drop and I begin to understand. " _You didn't let him in the house, did you, Bells?"_ I shake my head. I could never say why Jasper Cullen knocked on the door yesterday.

"No, no. He just... asked for you and left."

" _Good. Just... be careful. Make sure you…"_

"...lock the door and bolt every night. Gotcha." I finish the sentence for him. Like a broken record.

He breathes on the phone. " _You should come visit. Take some time off work. I think you're too holed up in that place alone. You love Chicago, don't you?"_

I loathe Chicago. I'm not getting into that with him. Life after high school in the big city wasn't working out. I quit a newspaper job as a copywriter. I made sure to tell the editor to stick "his" ideas up his ass after he printed his name instead of mine. "We're a team, it's how it works," he said. I dare not bring up Riley over anything either. I still have nightmares. I still feel the bruises—Riley hand sized marks on my arms. Then, he went too far.

I am done with Chicago.

"Sure, I'll plan it out," I say begrudgingly. I do miss him and Sue.

I hang up with a new odd perspective of my parents. They've always been the perfect citizens, never cutting corners, responsible tax paying townies. Now I find out they were one of the unfortunates to fall into schemes from a family "business." I shudder at the thought.

I look up and do a double take. At some point, Edward walked into the shop and stood in a long line. No wonder everyone went quiet. I hear whispers of "Berserky" behind me. I want to turn and tell them to fuck off, but my eyes are glued to this man upfront. My heart picks up instantly.

I don't get to see him this close. I'm taking it all in, every inch and hair out of place. He's a mess today. Dark eyes, pale skin. His knuckles have healed but it doesn't help much for those dried, worked hands. Fidgety. Nerve wrecked. He seems like he'll blow at any second, a ticking bomb.

He's looking over shoulders, scratching his unruly head and pacing. Just as I knew he would, he steps up and walks past everyone. I hold my breath.

"Hey," he says. A guy turns and faces him, a coffee in hand. He's an off-duty cop. I would know, he directs traffic on rush hour and always comes in on his day off to get a coffee. Edward doesn't know. He bumps into his chest and flails his arms over the counter. "Can I get some service here? I don't have all fucking day!" The cop lays a hand on his shoulder. Edward flinches back. "Don't touch me. I don't… I don't like to be touched," he says as he shakes his head over and over.

I begin to stand but think better of it. How the hell would I help any? The snickering from the back is loud enough. I glare at the guys over my shoulder. They're construction workers from down the street.

"I just want a coffee and one of those cheese danish things. Black coffee, not that macchiato bullshit. Black, no sugar," Edward says loud. The cop tries to ease him with calm words. He steps back and it seems to be working. Edward looks confused now, hands on hips as he paces.

Everyone in line automatically disperses. Edward is relieved. He places both hands on the counter and waits for his black coffee, no sugar. He grips the danish in one hand and the coffee in the other. My heart is a drum because he isn't leaving the shop, but pulling back the random vacant seat in front of me and sitting. I quickly move my items to make room for him. Literally everyone stares. I force myself not to.

The crowd slowly goes back to quiet chatter. I don't know what to do with myself. My hands. My breathing. My legs. He maneuvered the seat so we're pressed together at the leg. His warmth pulling through. Yet this isn't the only surprising detail of this moment. Today he decided to wear jeans. Soft, fitted ones. His bare feet in sandals. His robe around his shoulders still, smelling like fabric softener, thanks to Alice. The greasy waves of his hair fall over his forehead. His beard is overgrown. He takes a hefty bite of the danish and sips on his paper cup, lid off. He flicked that over his shoulder. No time to waste.

I watch his hands move. His nail beds are smooth and neat. The veins over his hands run up dry knuckles, disappearing under the robe's cuffs. There's one thing I never noticed him wearing before and it's a fine Rolex wrapped around his wrist. The metal is shiny and new. Diamonds dot each hour. He turns it and glances at the time.

I dare to do it—I open my mouth and speak. "Hello, Edward. It's been a while." I nod curtly. I don't look up. I nonchalantly take a sip of my coffee that's cold on my tongue. His head slowly moves up, eyes with it. I can feel the heat of his stare. I look just in time to see a crumb stuck to the corner of his lip fall off. He doesn't utter a word. I swallow thickly.

The assholes in the back stand and leave their mess behind. They're loud and obnoxious. They snicker after walking by. The last one trailing them bumps into our table. His tool belt grazes it loudly. He looks out of it, unfocused, intoxicated.

Edward glances at his watch after they pour out of the door. He stands. My heart sinks. He grabs his trash and used cup. He pauses for a beat. Then, he crumples up my mess and takes it with him to dump. "Thanks," I mutter.

He marches out the door.

It takes a moment. I sit at the table I just shared with the most complicated man I've ever met. I collect myself and count to 10. Lunch is over. I run out to get to work. I cross the street and pass a crowd of construction workers milling about in one spot. I crane my neck as I walk by and they're familiar. Blood soaks the tool belt on the pavement. The owner's eyes are alert now. He grips his thigh where a screwdriver is stuck. The second tool was driven through his hand. Some people are looking around to see who it was. I know. I know exactly who it was.

The off-duty cop locks the handcuffs around his wrists, his hands blood red. Edward is pushed into a black, unmarked, waiting car. "Everything is under control," the officer says. He lifts a hand and gets behind the wheel. He doesn't wait for the ambulance to arrive.

I don't see Edward that night, nor every night for a month after that.

…

"Bells." Charlie smiles. He pulls me into his warm hug. I hand him over my carry-on. He chuckles.

"Dragged me all the way here, you drag that up the stairs."

"My pleasure. Elevators, babe," he says with a wink. Sue is gorgeous in dark sharp pants and a white crisp suit jacket. Her red lips are dark and flattering against her complexion. As a stylist for the rich and famous, she lives, eats, breathes fashion, and she's fabulous. She hugs me. I smile at Charlie in his jacket and slim slacks over her shoulder. I've never seen him this... modern. He's happy. It's been years since Mom died and he's been alone since. He deserves everything. He's a small town boy dressed as a hip city man living in a condo... and enjoying every last bit of it while retired. The many garages he has built for himself are still standing and well managed. His days are spent at fine restaurants, museums, and box tickets to Cubs games when in season.

"Hungry?" Sue asks. "We have reservations at 8." I nod and she links her arm around mine. As much as I've learned to loathe this place, it still feels like home. I know the way to all the great places around here, including the restaurant.

We sit and Sue orders a bottle of Brachetto, even though we haven't ordered a starter yet. Dad grumbles but pours a glass of the dessert wine anyway. Sweet and bubbly. The lighting in the restaurant casts a glow over the tables and silverware. The chandeliers canopy a second floor that overlooks our table on the main floor. I sit back and lift my gaze to see the colors dance over the walls. Classical music drifts softy through the space.

I take a hefty breath. I try not to remember this place. I don't want to ruin this moment with Dad and Sue. Riley's parents were sitting just a couple of tables down from here. Riley was talking a lot, making plans. I was included, but not involved. His mother was elated. The date was set, yet he never popped the question. I said so, I interrupted the conversation and mentioned the irony. The table grew quiet.

I left the next morning with a black eye and a broken spirit. I wanted to kill him. That day. Yesterday. Tonight. Every single moment I wish it with all my might.

"Honey, you alright?" Sue asks, a smile in her voice. I blink to look at her. I get ready to charm my way back to normalcy, but the doors open.

Carlisle steps through with two men at his sides. They climb the steps and sit at the far table on the second floor. I can see everything.

"Yup. I'm... great," I mutter to Sue, wide eyed. I lift my glass for her to pour me a portion.

"I knew you two would love this wine," she says smug. All the while, I'm watching as Jasper and Emmett find their way to the Cullen table of three now. They don't greet one another at all. They sit and pull at their suit jackets—a waiter takes Emmett's, Jasper unbuttons his but keeps it on. He cuts up the butt of a cigar.

He's the old school classic type, fedora off his shiny hair sitting by his side. I remember his scent instantaneously. Emmett is relaxed as he rolls up his sleeves, no tie. A 5 o'clock shadow is sprinkled over his face. He's handsome in his poker face. I glance at Carlisle and he's the most intimidating of all. His white hair is like Ivory tusk over a sharp Humphrey Bogart face. They barely move their lips as they converse. Two waiters rush around them without a pause. I itch to be a fly on a wall.

I glance at Charlie and he's unaware. I'm relieved. No way would I want a meet and greet this second. I try to carry a conversation with Dad and Sue. I ask a lot of questions just so they'll get going and I can wander.

The waiter comes by to our table and she's a lot less rushed. I chuckle at that. Maybe it's the nerves. I take long sips of my glass and I can't keep still.

I grab my purse to find the ladies room. "Bathroom. Be right back," I say to both of them. I stand. I quickly sit back down again.

Sue looks perplexed. "Well, that was fast," she says humorously. My stomach cramps up. I could die just now. Strike me dead.

I cover my face and whisper. "Oh, you know, just someone I promised I'd never see again." Sue is perceptive. Charlie is not.

"An old friend? Don't you want to say hello?" he asks.

Sue touches his arm. "What part of what she said didn't you get?" She looks over at the door. She approves what she sees with a "hmph." She stares.

"Dad, it's Riley. As in my ex whom I don't want to see, like, ever." Charlie cowers in his seat in understanding.

"Well, if that's Riley I can tell you right now, he's my best paying client," Sue mutters. She takes a sip of her glass like she's enjoying a show. "And boy is he handsome."

I look from under the bend of my arm and then I'm frantically looking around. The man at the door sure as hell isn't Riley. His dark blue suit is tailored to every toned limb immaculately. A dark tie is tucked inside the lapels of his suit. The glow of the room catches the sparkle in his onyx cufflinks. His blonde locks are coiffed and tight around his ears. When he walks, people make room and stand by walls. The manager and hostess quickly lead him in, surpassing all who wait to be seated.

There's something about the way he moves. I forget who I'm looking for. His presence brings that familiar pound to my chest. I can't place him, but that gait when he walks, I know. A ring decorates one of his digits. His hands fall at his sides making white knuckled fists, like he'll walk up to a man and use his bare hands to kill or maim. _Where is he from?_

Sue giggles. "Uh huh, you too, young lady. Get in line," she says to me. The ultimate bachelor in the room. I shake my head, watching him ascend the stairs flanked by four men—two at his front and two at his back.

"That's not Riley."

"Riley?" Charlie looks up to catch a glimpse but he's too late. Riley is in plain view by the entrance, a woman at his side. I suppose she's his next victim. His gait wasn't anywhere near as impactful when he entered the room, yet there are chills up my spine.

"Who is that?" I ask Sue about the former. She takes a peek over her shoulder. We watch all three Cullen brothers stand and shuffle around the table to offer him the best spot. They strategically wait for him to sit first. The hostess lingers. She bends at his ear and her lips are close. Just one lift of his hand sends her away, red faced and hastily.

"He's a business owner's worst nightmare, a woman's most delicious daydream and a curiosity you should never feed into, missy." She looks at me sharp. "So don't stare or your eyes will burn."

I roll said eyes. "Jesus. That's sounds ominous and ridiculous."

She shakes her head. "Oh, but it isn't."

"Where's Riley?" We look at Charlie and he's completely lost and out of touch. He knows it ended badly with him, but not why. I feel awful. I still can't help rolling my eyes at him.

"Eat. You get upset when you're hungry," Sue tells him. He grunts and stabs his steak. His beefy thumb scrolls through his new phone gingerly. It's insane what Sue has trained him to do.

I sneak a peek over her head. This stranger's eyes are so piercing and familiar. His jaw flexes when Carlisle opens his mouth to speak. He shakes his head curtly. He smooths his tie down after that hand of his shook the table with a bang. It was Inaudible to my ears with the cacophony around us. The brothers sit back and purse their lips distastefully. He blinks slowly and speaks to them with a snarl around his teeth.

For the very first time, I see Carlisle look vexed.

"Now you know who's boss," Sue says with a grin. "Peculiar isn't it? The youngest, yet most ruthless. Do you know his father?" I shake my head.

She leans in like it's a secret and she's dishing the finest gossip. "Edward Cullen Sr." I cut my eyes back to the group upstairs. I almost gasp. Those mannerisms I definitely memorized. They're recorded in my brain where fascination and obsession resides. That's Edward 'Berserky' Cullen Jr. sitting across the room. Crazy neighbor at large... and looking nothing as such.

His hair is much lighter, trimmed. His face clean shaven. He's wearing… more than pants. Of course I wouldn't have recognized him.

Sue continues to tell me the scoop. "Carlisle wasn't too keen on the son of the eldest running the business, but he was proven wrong. That boy can withstand any challenge."

"You dressed him," I say. She chuckles.

"Picked those cuffs out myself. Strict orders, only this suit for these specific ones. Great listener. Great abs. Great tipper." She pops a forkful of steak through her red lips.

"Is that how you know so much?"

She points with a thumb. "Your father has told me stories. Hasn't he told you?"

"What's that?" Dad. A game is on. He's catching the scores. He doesn't look up. I guess some things never change.

She waves a hand and continues on. "I swear, that man's life is fabulous, probably juggles five women at once. Who knows? Problem is, no one seems to know where he goes for long periods of time. He hides from the law. A lot. He just got back from a long trip."

A long trip from his crazy bin is what. I know. I know where he goes. I wonder if Charlie knows. My lips are sealed shut.

"So, he's... boss," I say dryly. I'm trying to understand. She nods eagerly.

"They watch him like the apple of their eye. More valuable than all the money they gamble and invest. He visits when there's business to do... or when there's trouble." She refers to the way he looks—pissed.

"But, why him?" I shrug. He's just a crazy guy from high school I barely remember. He commits sins around town and never gets caught. He likes to exercise in the nude with just socks on and goes berserk in public. I don't say these things.

"He's, what you call, an artist. He's a genius at what they do. The brothers are of age. They need to pass down the business. It's been years now. He's what? In his late twenties? He's not new to this." She pauses. Her brows knit. "How long have you been away from home or living here and not known? Don't you remember?"

"It's been years, Sue. I barely remembered anyone when I moved back home," I explain. She shrugs.

I watch him. He crosses a leg over the other. He sits back and looks bored while the others look flabbergasted. He lifts a few fingers and looks away. It's all it takes for all of them to cease their badgering, it seems.

Edward. A mob boss. That motherfucking lying piece of shit. I regret ever feeling any pity for him. All lying men in my life. I look at Charlie and he's happily ignorant of all this. Thank Christ.

I chance a look over at Riley and suddenly I feel nothing. No fear. Just angry. Then, I watch as he stands and ascends the stairs towards the big boy table. My stomach plummets. A few men stop him mid-flight. Riley gestures over where Emmett is eating, elbows up, napkin tucked in his collar. Jasper looks up. One nod. They let Riley finish his steps.

"Oh, God," I whisper. Sue looks over.

"Isn't that…? Well, I'll be damned."

"What the fuck is he up to? Is he involved?" I feel hysterical. My hands tremble and, of course, it would make sense. This awful man involved with awful people.

Charlie looks up. He catches sight of Riley. Then he turns in his chair. "Well, I'll be… Girls, the Cullen brothers are here." He jabs an elbow at Sue. We roll our eyes at him. It's only been our conversation all through dinner. He squints a bit. "Isn't that Riley?"

"Keep your voice down for heaven's sake!" I hiss. I could strangle him. Sue laughs silently and lays her head on his shoulder.

I point at dad. "You're telling me everything. I need to know why my ex is talking to the Cullens."

"Easy girl. Who knows? I haven't seen them around in a long time. I mean, they do own the place." My mouth falls open.

I watch, mortified, as Riley walks up to their table holding his date around her waist. He pats Emmett on his shoulder with his free hand. I cringe at the audacity. Emmett looks sharp at the hand until Riley pulls it away. Edward is dabbing at the crease of his slacks uninterested. He takes a swig of his ebony drink. He doesn't even look up once. The table is tense still and a moron is interrupting. Riley has never been good at reading people.

Carlisle smiles at the girl. He reaches out and she hesitates but makes her way around the table. She shakes his hand. He has better ideas. She's on his lap and highly uncomfortable. Riley rubs his neck like he does when he is also, but all he does is smile.

Everyone ignores him, but not his date. Her dress wrinkles at her waist. Carlisle's hand dips out of view. He looks into Riley's eyes and speaks as he does unspeakable things. The girl wide eyed. She tries to fight it. The table jolts from underneath, but it's no use. He's got his hand buried in her and the other in her hair.

The brothers don't even flinch. Jasper pours ebony liquid into his glass. Emmett wipes his lips clean after finishing his meal. Edward watches Riley real closely.

I feel blood drain from my face. Sue and Charlie are suddenly busying themselves with the check. The relief floods me. I grab my purse and quickly begin to get us the hell out of here.

Dad tells us he's heading out to grab us a cab.

"Yes, go," I wave a hand. I want to run after him but Sue is still lingering at the table. She gulps down the wine left behind in each glass.

"Bathroom," she announces with a smile. I want to die. She scurries off and I'm left behind to sign the slip. All the while I'm frantically glancing up and seeing the horror unfold. I grab my purse and stand.

Riley begins to descend the stairs. I slow my strides. I attempt to turn back. My heart's a drum. _Fuck._ Nowhere else to go but move it along. I hide behind a waiter's tray and keep up the pace.

I look back. He's left his date behind at the Cullen's table. I hold my breath and dig my nails into my palms. How could he leave her there? I want to gouge his eyes out, but those same dark eyes blink and find mine from where he stands. I tense.

He turns to me after the last step and the corner of his lip curls up. "Bella," he says loud. I look away. I focus on the exit.

 _No, no, no._

There's that moment when you see your life before your eyes. This time, when he grabs a hold of my elbow, I see every memory he left encrusted deep inside. All the pain. All the yelling. All the tears I shed because of him. My bones feel the cracking blow to my cheek when he let himself go that day.

Heat rises. Blood boils in me. Reactively, I roll my fist back and punch him square. His head snaps back. I feel the crack under my knuckles on my second swing. One for me. One for the date he left behind. I snatch my elbow off his grasp and find that exit.

"What the fuck?" he shouts.

I feel the blood wet on my fingers. I flex my knuckles at my side. Nothing has felt so invigorating, so alive.

Sue pops up from my right, unaware. I smile and she joins my side without breaking a stride. We head out the doors and into the night.

When I slam that cab door shut, I'm left with this strong electricity running through my veins. I like it. I like it very much. Dad and Sue, none the wiser, see me smiling.

I feel that familiar buzz again. The one I get when I'm alone at home and in bed. I look out. Then I realize, as the cab pulls out, this familiar buzzing always appears when Edward is watching, just like he is at the crowded doors looking out from the restaurant.

…

Work is gray. I'm back to the grind, but the grind hasn't grinded me yet. This spirit of mine is as light as a balloon, as cotton, as a fucking slice of cheesecake.

Man. Cheesecake. I pick up a piece at the deli on my way home. Every night is a celebration night if you ask me.

The trip to Chicago was fun, relaxing, and life changing. I still feel it weeks after.

Sue begged me to stay. I thought about it hard. But work is getting better. I'm at the brink of getting promoted and jobs in the city are too competitive. I have a voice now. People respect me. So, these pencils skirts, blouses and heels are helping to shape a more serious role in my life. I strap on the wonder bras and button up the silks, because here I come world, this is me.

I do up my hair and pin it straight. My bangs are just right, my makeup contoured and lids winged. I feel great.

Jess joins me for dinner. I tell her about the closure I felt the moment my fist connected with his despicable face. She laughs. She snorts loud. We swish our cocktails under our smiling lips.

That night, I hear the shrill of that mint green phone ring inside that vacant house. It's been locked for months, but on the third ring it stops.

Edward's profile appears when he clicks on his lamp. It illuminates his usual chair. The town eventually believes he's back from an asylum. He's better. He's a little less insane. The corrupt law slapped his wrist for stabbing a man with two screwdrivers. But I know. That man owed a substantial amount of money and no payments were sent on time. Such things get you an immobile right hand.

The days pass and he paces around the house like a ghost. I don't know how he does it. I don't understand it.

His hair is back to its unruly bronze self and a beard frames his dark circles again. He plays the part phenomenally, so much so that I wonder if he's a twin. Could he really fall this unhinged time and again? I don't know. So many medical possibilities. Schizophrenia floods my mind. It's unnerving.

I see him in town, to everyone's chagrin. He takes, he manipulates, and interrupts the peace.

I try to find remnants left behind from that night at the restaurant, but there's not one speckle of proof. I forget, little by little, the sharp handsome man I once witnessed. This is the Edward that's left, a lost heart, mind, and soul. They can't possibly be the same.

Sometimes I get angry. I want to bang on his door and insist he tells me the truth. Then, I watch him and the crazed eyes can't be anyone else's but his. Alice comes by and the boys run around again. She wouldn't condone this behavior if it weren't true. I know Alice. Alice was the kind heart in our circle. She had a fierce spirit and was a force to be reckoned with. But there she is, cleaning up the mess of an insane, troubled man... and being humane about it.

I watch his windows less and less. The same routine makes for a disjointed infatuation. Jess and I find a rhythm after work. I make friends and I keep them. Everything seems to fall into place—until one night everything changes.

…

I look at the clock. It's 3 a.m.

I'm up. I pull back the lace curtains and I'm standing in plain view. I'm pissed. Where is this ridiculous light coming from? I'm sick of his crazy spells.

I squint at the light and then it goes out. I push the window open and lean out. "Hey, asshole!" I shout. "Do you mind?" Then the back door to the yard swings open. Edward comes running out. The street light catches that sharp knife in his hand. He hides. He rips a line from his robe. He wraps it tight around that balled fist. And I know, it's to keep it secure when he's ready to swing.

He looks up at me. I slowly see his index finger come up to his lips.

My stomach seems to curl in itself. I look back at the window adjacent to mine.

 _One pop. Two._

The window shatters above me. I fall into my room and slam my back to the wall. _Oh, God…_

My ears swish and swish. I hear nothing but my panting and feel glass bits under my palms. Everything goes quiet.

I think, I think. Everything Charlie has told me floods in. " _Something happens, find that glock in the hallway."_ Was he preparing me for something like this? I crawl frantically there. Where the fuck is it? I tear down everything in there. Nothing.

A loud noise drifts from outside. I crouch and look out a smaller window. I gasp.

Edward's chest is bare, glistening. His boxers are streaked with crimson red. He holds up a thin metal sheet and he launches it through a neck. The black clothed man's body flinches on the ground, then stops moving.

A second figure staggers to his feet. The knife and piece of plaid robe hangs from the man's torso. He pulls it out. The growl pushing out of him is furious and loud. He skillfully flips the knife and catches it for a better grip. He swings at Edward's chest but he dives out of reach. He kicks at the ground and catches whatever is in flight.

I start. The pop of the gun firing is loud. He empties the barrel on that one alone.

I run down the stairs. I lock the bolt to the door. Charlie's badgering floods my ears. _Stupid._ I go for the windows and check every lock on those. I run to check the kitchen door. I see Edward hop over my fence through the window.

There are more out there and they come to kill.

I let out a cry. The depths of me empty out in a smothered shrill. A firm, dry knuckled hand presses to my lips.

"Hello, Bella. It sure has been a while," he says. My ear feels the warm words so close.

I grip the hand that holds my screams at bay. Those smooth, neat nail beds are rough and bloody now. I breathe and breathe. Edward Cullen Jr. has finally come to kill me.

He tosses a key onto the kitchen island. The worn sticker on it reads "Swan."

"Can I let go now?" he whispers. I shuffle my feet. My locked knees find their strength. His chest a stable surface to perch myself against. No struggle in his lungs pressed to my backbone. He's calm. I nod. He lets go.

His free hand is curled around my back. His other wiggles its fingers with a "Hello." He smiles, but it just makes him look deranged.

"If I told you to run and hide, would you do it?" he asks easy. His eyes take me in, capturing my full attention. I don't speak. "Well," he says, "If you don't, you might not be alive in about... hm, ten seconds. I don't think you'll be OK with that." He shakes his head.

He moves and with every step, I'm pulled, too. His gaze never leaves mine, but he reaches behind the cabinet by the fridge. A chrome gun appears in his hand. He wraps his arms around me and cocks the barrel in two hands.

"So...are you ready?" His brows lift. "I've seen you run, you'll do just fine." A few of his fingers skim over my cheek, down to my neck. He pulls on stray locks of hair and tucks them back.

The moonlight dims from the windows. Time is running out. I nod. He grins.

"Go, hide behind the stairs." He tilts his head.

I run. Like hell.

I cover my ears and crouch. Pull after pull of gunshots take over the kitchen. There's a mirror. I watch him hide behind a wall and shoot around it. Windows shatter everywhere.

"Don't worry. I'll get Charlie new ones," he says from where he stands. He pulls the magazine out, no bullets. He charges behind the couch empty handed. The plush cushions split. Filler spills out from every bullet hole. He shoots back with a shotgun now. _Where the hell did he get that?_

"I'll get a couch, too!" he yells. He shoots and shoots. Then I realize, this house is his den, full of hidden guns at his disposal. I'm just in the middle of it.

Tears spill down my cheeks. This man is insane. It's true. All of it. I'm going to die here with him.

He pulls me to my feet. "Come. You need a gun." The latch to the basement door is locked. One swing of the rifle and it breaks. The stairs going down lead to pitch darkness. My cheek is pressed to his shoulder blade. Yesterday, I was having a cocktail. Yesterday I was complaining about my uneventful life. Here I am, with a mob boss' back muscles as my guide.

The light flickers on and then I'm huffing and puffing, turning in circles.

"What the fuck?!" I go berserk this time. My hands claw the air. He's already pulling on a bulletproof vest off a weapon infested shelf. Glocks, semi-automatics, knives, and ammo line up on a wall. I've never been down here. I never knew Charlie allowed this.

All the lying men in my life.

"Who the hell are you?" I seethe.

He shakes his head as he pulls up a pair of dark pants, tennis shoes next. "I know, I know. What matters is Charlie is good. Pure. We owe him." I stare at him. He stuffs twin guns behind his back like that right there wasn't just batshit. "I'll let you break my nose later. Free swings, no charge." He refers to the blows to Riley's face. And maybe it's been him all along.

He takes me to the far corner of the basement. He pulls a latch and bangs a door open. This side of the house is vacant. Weeds sprout high. A fence blocks a path to a main street.

He pulls a sweater over my nightdress from... somewhere. The street light is dim at the threshold. I see his eyes. His hands on my arms pull me close.

"Is this the worst time to kiss you?" he asks. I'm speechless. _Am I supposed to answer that?_ He dips his head. He almost does, but he looks torn. "I'll make it up to you. I'll never let them near you again. I'll play a homeless man. I'll be a mental patient if that's what it takes. You and me this time, far away, anywhere you want."

My brows knit. "And what makes you think I'd go anywhere with you?" I spit. This crazy man.

A faint smirk plays at his lips. "You love me. You always have. Remember you told me? I meant to say it back."

The feeling from my limbs seems to dissipate. I stare. I utter no words. "Of course," he murmurs low. He lets go.

He slips a gun in my hand. I grip it hard. It feels right.

"Go. Don't stop running. Call Charlie. He knows everything." I look at the gun. I look at him. He crashes his lips to mine anyway. Weakness crawls to my knees. He pushes me out the door and I'm supposed to use these legs now.

I'm far. The night is still, asleep—except for those popping sounds I leave behind. I run and run in my bare feet. Then, I stop. Dead still.

I turn in circles. I stare at the rose bushes lining the path. I stare at the dark sky above. I stare and I stare until everything morphs into memories.

Mom died in my arms under these stars. The car swerved into a rose bush. Thorns tore at my legs. It was one shot to the back wheel, that's all it took. Then, there were more. These bullet-size scars at my ribs and my neck have to mean something. The only proof left.

I left this town, not because I was young and curious—I was young and broken. I was forced to forget, to heal from deep wounds.

 _What was it? God, what was it?_ I tap, tap, tap this metal against my foggy brain. This nostalgia at the tip of my tongue—ready to tell me everything I used to know.

Edward. His bare chest against mine, our first time. Those sharp green eyes, teaching me everything he had to learn for himself. Too young for such anger. No, he was never the same after his father was dragged dead.

You fall for a Cullen man, you're walking dead. His lifestyle. His family. His business. It all becomes yours. He said, "Don't leave." I wanted a simple life, not watching one slip away in my arms. He said, "I'll go where you go." I ripped myself out of his life. I took mom with me. Eighteen shouldn't be the ripe age to use a gun on a man. I killed him. I killed that stranger by the red rose bushes. Then, everything went black.

I cock this gun because I remember how. I turn right back. I was his right hand girl and he was all mine. Yes, I remember everything.

So, I run. Like hell.

...


	2. Chapter 2 - Remembering

**A/N:** Please read Chapter 1 first or you'll be lost. It'll get you in the flow anyway. ;-) Thanks for stopping by. Welcome to this... idk what it is. We'll see. My mind is going for 'shit show'. Shrug.

* * *

 **Chapter 2 - Remembering  
**

I can hear the muffled struggle. They're dying. One at a time on my kitchen floor. Making a damn mess.

I ran, and I ran hard. That man by the back of the house is laying there now, eyes blankly staring up at stars; the same stars that twinkled over Mom's lifeless body.

I remember.

God, I remember.

What is this? Everything I thought I knew is all different.

He will always be the second man I've killed. I ask myself, standing in the basement again, listening to muffled death, why I didn't flinch when I pulled the trigger. I came around and found the door open to the basement.

He's upstairs.

I watch that door we both came through. It's splayed. Shadows ghosting over the panes. I reach for that second magazine.

 _Isabella Swan, you won't be the same from this point on._ I swallow hard and accept the words looping through my head as I take those steps. Night and day; I'm the latter now, someone else inside of me.

One shot. A knee bends the wrong way. A man cries out. I aim for his neck this time.

I watch as blood seeps until it almost touches the edge of the carpet I vacuumed this morning. I gnaw at my lip hoping it doesn't connect.

I look.

The front door I locked is now open. I maneuver my way there, walking over a choking man and another splatter to my left. It's all over the countertop, too.

I look into his eyes, and I want to ask him why he came. He tries to take a breath, but can't. I don't get a chance.

Two men in the kitchen, one out back.

I'm keeping count.

The porch outside creaks and squeaks with every footfall. Stealth means nothing to this guy. Sloppy, loud-walking Edward is out there hiding, looking around the wall to the side of the house.

I step out.

I lean the barrel to the threshold … and stare down his barrel in a matter of seconds when I step onto that weak floorboard I know so well.

I lift my chin high.

I wait.

He lets that barrel dip. "Bella." His eyes brightening even in a dark night. The lamp was shattered above us, glass sprinkled around. His doing I'm sure.

He comes closer. His chest heaving.

I cock the gun and find that spot between his eyes.

"What happened to me?"

He lets out a breath. His smile is so big. He lifts a hand to cup his heart.

I pull the trigger.

The thump is loud when he hits the floor. It shakes under my feet. Edward looks back from his crouch where he flinched. He quickly looks behind me. From cupping his heart to my neck in a matter of seconds. We tumble down to the floor just as quickly.

I covered his back, he covers mine with two shots. The black-clothed men fall on either side of us.

Then he kisses me.

I'll have none of it. Not even when he looks at me like I've been lost and he's just found me. He lets his gun go to smooth back my hair, the other hand to wrap itself around me.

I bend a knee and shove him. I press the hot barrel to his neck.

"Up," I seethe.

His mouth turns up instead. He catches my lips again until he can't pucker up anymore. Then, he grunts.

"Get the hell off me," I say. This time, he listens. Maybe he cares for his balls far more than his neck. He stands, and where I kneel, I know I've got him. Gun pointed between his legs.

He takes a breath, but he's smiling.

"Careful, Baby. You don't want to do that," he says. I stand on my two feet, and I'm taller now.

I dig in just a little harder. "Why's that? You come into my house, you leave a mess. Why shouldn't I?"

His eyes flutter. His chest gets going. He's barely on his heels. "Because you'll want it, one way or another." He looks at me.

It's just struggled breathing between silence as we stare at one another.

His hand tentatively reaches. He runs a few fingers down my neck, to my chest. He delves deeper.

"You remember?" he asks. "How much?"

I shake my head. I look away and back again.

I'm wavering.

I know I should never lose focus of what my gun is pointing at. That, I remember. _He_ taught me that.

"I missed you," he whispers. "How long has it been? Seven, eight years? Then you're here, and I almost broke my cover. Every time I'd see you on the street, in town, out my window…" he says and shakes his head. "You made me crazy."

I swallow heavy. It's his words, but it's his hand traveling inside my nightdress. I've observed this man, watched his every move.

Now he's here.

"What happened to me?" I ask through my teeth. I enunciate with a sharp jab.

He sucks in a breath. He bucks against the hard barrel.

I bite on my tongue when he cups a breast. Then he snakes two knuckles around the hardened peak.

"I couldn't trust you," he says. "You appeared out of thin air, and I wondered why and what you wanted."

He clamps and twists hard. Pain shoots through my chest. My hand around the trigger shakes.

"And you were alone. And I've been alone. Every night I wanted to come to your bed like I used to, watching you, but how was I supposed to be sure?" He looks straight into my eyes.

I hold back a whimper. My tense cheeks shake with the pain. My eyes prickle.

"I respected Charlie. I stayed away. It's what you wanted. So, imagine my surprise? I asked myself, 'What does that pretty girl I once knew, who's grown into a beautiful woman, possibly want from me?'"

I'm panting.

His knuckles tighten. I swallow a scream.

I think about this. I think hard.

This crazy man was mine. This neighborhood was mine. And this life of his was mine. He's right. He's the only one who knows me, more than I know myself.

I break.

The gun tumbles loudly at my feet.

Like a desperate man, his mouth is there to wet and dull the pain. He pulls my dress down and makes his way up to my lips again. His hands are everywhere, mine are at my sides.

"What happened to me?" I say to the beams up high on the porch ceiling. My chin gingerly cupped in his hand.

He pecks at my cheek, my temple, and then he looks at me. This sadness changes him. He shakes his head. "You left me," is what he says. "Time has gone by, and I've missed so much."

. .

. .

I open my eyes. The sun is up. The room has different shadows, like it's afternoon, like I'm late, like I overslept and I feel rested when I shouldn't be on a weekday.

I turn to the clock. I shoot out of bed.

"Fuck."

I tear the sheets off me, as it seems they're woven around me. It takes one too many tries.

This is a nightmare. The kind where it's your first day of work and you dream of being late. I turn in circles in the middle of the room.

"Fuck!" I run to the bathroom and grab my phone on the way. One text to Jess, the next to my boss.

Excuses upon excuses typed and sent.

Then I stop. I look in the mirror. Something's different. I stare and stare and…

Was it a dream? Yes. A horrible one.

My God, it felt so real.

I've had these dreams before, extreme ones, where my blood pumps fast, and I wake up sweating and panting, facing a gun, waking up when someone pulls the trigger. It was years of the same dream. It's been months. Now they're back. This dread in me, I want to cry. Because I know, I know it will haunt me every night for weeks.

I step up to the mirror over the sink. I lean in. I grab my breasts; pull on the front of my nightdress. There's nothing, but there's something. Bruising marks ghost down my neck, to my chest. Maybe my nails again during my sleep.

I'm showering, and my nipples are sore. I think and think. It's the end of the month. My period is in a couple of days. I sigh. I step into the stream wishing it to wash away these nightmare spells that come every so often.

I'm lightning speed getting dressed. A blouse, heels next. I hop downstairs trying to get the fitted left shoe on. Wet hair. No makeup yet.

I look around the kitchen, the living room. My stomach churns. Is it the trash can again? I threw it out yesterday. But it also smells like ammonia. I check the cabinet; still full of detergent, nothing has spilled.

"Fuck." I'm late. I rush to the door, grab the keys, my satchel and trench coat next. I lock the door with the key and make my way to the car, turning it on with the larger key to the right of the chain.

Then, I sit in the car. I don't back out. I don't even move. The windshield has leaves on it, sprinkled dust, too. Bird shit is drying out to the top right. I stare and stare at ... nothing.

What's wrong? What's off? I can't leave. I can't put my finger on it.

Then, I'm turning off the car, I'm charging back to the house, flipping back to the left key and opening the door.

I see it.

I fall to my knees. Mouth ajar. Tears burn my eyelids. But I see it, blurred eyes or not. The bullet hole through the back of the couch is obvious.

I crawl there. I put my finger over the patch.

I've put my finger on it.

I look at the carpet. I crawl to that spot. The edges are frayed and cut off. Not a speckle of blood left.

I sit back and stare at everything. Right here, right under me, that choking man died.

I let out a cry. Then another. This time, it comes from my broken soul.

Last night was real; it wasn't a nightmare I woke up from. He lifted me off the porch, climbed the stairs to my room and tucked me into the sheets. He stayed there next to me, caressing my hair, clearing away tears as I cried myself to sleep.

Mom's death wasn't an accident like Dad told me. They killed her, and they almost killed me.

I sob.

I lie on the floor, over the ghost of a nameless, faceless man who died here. The one I killed last night.

. .

. .

 **Young**

"Edward", I call. The front of the class is loud. The teacher stepped out and told me I'm in charge. I don't know why I'm in charge. I'm an average student, but no straight A's. I see why Mr. Banner would choose me, compared to these Neanderthals, I'm a better option.

I sit here, in this old desk marked with slang, curses, and tag names people love to go by in their neighborhood. It's stupid. How did I end up in special studies? This is fucked. The class for troubled kids meant to be monitored and make sure they do their homework. That one fucking class I failed last year, and this is what I get. Torture with weirdos.

I sigh and watch an immature Edward sit at the teacher's desk. He's snooping. He grabs a piece chalk and draws a dick shooting sperm on the board.

"Stop being a douchebag!" I yell. I haven't talked to him since freshman year. Well, more like middle school. He's not popular by any stretch. He's the troublemaker. The popular kids fear him, the popular girls give him dirty looks, but they don't protest much when his hand makes its way up their skirts. He's his own clique. Pete and two other assholes follow him around. They sit on the stairs of the school and snap on underwear when girls pass by. The leaders and cat-callers of tomorrow. How inspiring.

I stare him down when it's my turn up the steps. I try not to look scared. I grip my keys strategically so I can take a swing if anyone tries. He watches me hard, leaning back on the steps.

His biker jacket is the only cool piece of clothing he has. The rest is faded and dated, old Adidas on his feet, corduroy pants on summer days because he's got but a few pairs. But he's tall. His dad doesn't spend money on him. A lesson. I heard that from Alice. She swallowed hard and shook her head when she told me how hard he was on him.

What she never explained was his arms and abs scratched up and scabbed, though trim and taut. He likes to wipe his face once in a while with a lift of his shirt.

It surprised me once. The muscles, but mostly the scabs.

What does he do to get that many so regularly?

He goes away for long periods of time. Then he's back and making everyone's life a living hell. I don't know how he passes the school year. Well, except for that one time. Now he's older than everyone.

I pass by him on the steps, and his eyes follow me, but nothing else. He doesn't touch me. Those same eyes I see through my window at night to his room. We stare at one another a lot. But nothing ever comes of it. We don't talk. We have silent communication. He steps out on that roof off his room, and when he's not smoking or staring at the sky, he's watching what I do in my room. He lounges there and snoozes.

It's not like it's new. He's always done it. I don't find it odd at all. I think his life is shitty and he needs that headspace and the comfort of watching someone else's calm life.

Because when his dad is home, all hell breaks loose. He doesn't come alone. Edward's uncles file in to talk to his grandfather who lives with them.

Maybe that's where he gets his scabs. You can hear the yelling from our house. And always toward Edward. His mom yells his name to stop whatever he does. I couldn't ever get a good view. Dad would come into my room, shut the window and tell me to go to bed.

But I did see once.

I did.

When he's not watching me, he's out in the street all hours of the night, doing God knows what. He has this beat up Dodge Polara his uncle gave him. The girls he drags along, the few who get in his car who really didn't mind when he'd reach up their skirts, they get a ride. More ways than one. They make it to his room, and I have to ignore that light on, pouring in through my window.

Until one night I really couldn't help but look. I was curious. Was he just as vicious to their soft skin and hearts as he was outside his house? I don't know why it bugged me. Even if the girls were the meanest in school, I worried. I watched. And the things I saw.

He was lean but robust from his thighs to hips and shoulders. A man before his age. Gorgeous like his father. He'd crawl over the bed. Sometimes he was generous. Others, he'd lay sprawled back. The shy girl fumbled. But then he'd take over. Settled her exactly where he wanted her. The girl in ecstasy and I held my breath along with her.

He wasn't vicious. He was just rough around the edges.

I never looked after that.

"Edward!" I yell. I channel his mother in some ways. The class looks over at me.

He looks up, chalk mid-air.

"Cut the shit."

He relents. He tosses the piece onto the dusty shelf and walks back to his desk to the beat of my heart.

He sits, folds his hands like a good student and says, "You love me, Bella?" The crowd howls. He hasn't said that in years. It just angers me.

"I'm not even sure your own mother does," I say right back. And maybe the crowd goes wild this time.

I shake in my bones, but I don't look away. I know him more than anyone else in this room. Deep down inside, I know I shouldn't have said that.

. .

. .

 **Younger**

The Cullen family is visiting next door. Classes ended, and that means middle school is next. Mom dreads summer days. She says I'm around the house more and I drive her nuts.

She's in curls and doing five hundred things in the kitchen, or so she says. I only see her doing one: the potato salad with her big pink curlers around her hair. Someone's wedding is today, and I have to wear that ugly dress she made me.

I slam the door from the back and hear her yelling again to stop slamming the damned door.

I see Uncle Emmett and Edward in the yard. I smile instantly and hop over to watch.

His uncle is in his twenties, and if you ask me, he's a hunk. I lean on a hand, watch and sigh. Alice would be so disgusted with me. She hates when I stare too much. But look at him! His big arms and tanned skin. I love when he takes his shirt off and leaves the wife beater on, tucked inside his slacks and belt. That gold chain bright around his neck, hair slicked back. You can tell he smells nice.

He play fights with Edward every time he comes by. I've learned a few moves myself. I'd sneak into his yard and sit and watch Uncle Emmett smack him around. I'd laugh hard. Edward's face would go beet red, just like it is now. But I didn't think anything of Emmett then. Now, it's like my eyes opened up from blindness. He's… dreamy.

"Gotta toughen up, bud," he says to Edward who's in a headlock. Edward's anger won't let him think straight. He charges at him with all his strength and loses focus. That's what Emmett says after diving out of his way.

I wish he'd ask me to try that move again. I wouldn't mind getting close, but I would just about die, too.

He finishes Edward off with a push that sends him to the ground.

"Edward!" There goes his mom, and there goes Uncle Emmett chuckling his way back into the house.

"Hey, where's Alice?" I shout over the fence. I watch him roll around catching his breath.

"How the hell should I know?"

"Well, you live together," I argue. He finds his feet, he looks chagrined.

"Probably getting dressed, fucking curling her hair. Who knows?" My shoulders drop. Her dress will definitely be nicer than mine. It always is. The Cullens are 'loaded,' as people whisper around town. Her daddy gets her so many gifts.

"You wearing a dress?" Edward asks me. I roll my eyes. He smiles funny. "You should. You'll actually look like a girl for once."

I flip him off close to my chest so Mom won't see if she's looking.

"You love me, Bella. You'd wear it for me," he says.

I scoff. I'd wear it for his uncle Emmett, but I ain't telling him that.

Uncle Jasper swings open the screen door and steps out. "Well, you heard your yappin' mother. Get inside," he says, lighting a cigarette. Then he looks over at me.

I never did feel comfortable around him. I let go of the fence and play with the rose bush. I watch Edward make that gesture and uncle Jasper never fails to let him take the cigarette for as long as he can. He puffs once, twice, coughs, and gives it back. He goes inside the house.

"Isabella!" I look back. My mom this time. Except now, I tense. Not because of her yelling, I'm used to that, but it's knowing she'll come out here to fetch me and see one of the uncles. She doesn't like them. Hates the sight of them. Says they're vile and dangerous. She says this only when she's in the house and whispering. Dad always brushes her off. He doesn't say much, but she reprimands me if she sees me near them.

I look over at uncle Jasper and then at our door. I charge through the lawn quickly, but it's too late. Mom barges out and reaches for her bra pinned to a clothesline. She slaps my bum.

"Go put your dress on, we're gonna be late!"

But her voice always gets caught. I wait for it. I watch her hands go to cover her slip she wears underneath her robe. Her eyes go big looking across the yard. And his lips curl up just like Edward's when he's planning something fierce against me. That fierce always ends up hurting.

This time, she slams the door.

I get so mad, piping hot. Nobody makes my mom mad but me.

I'm angry all through the ceremony and the ride to the reception. I sit in the back of the car staring at the back of Dad's head wishing I could yell at him to defend her. Especially when Uncle Jasper catches her arm and pulls her to the dance floor.

My red-faced mother in diamond earrings and a gown to match her complexion is forced to wrap her arm around his neck. He whispers things, soft things that make her dark feathered hair move by her ear. Her eyes flutter.

I hate it.

But the moment I feel fingertips underneath my hair and green eyes staring back at me, I know. I know what she feels.

Turns out, my dress was nicer than Alice's. So much so, everyone stared far too much, for far too long. So much so, Edward won't stop touching me every chance he gets. Now his touch shoots up my spine making my eyes flutter, too.

These butterflies in my stomach, but I don't show it. He gets me punch from the punch bowl. He grabs my hand and doesn't let go for all his cousins to see. And then he looks at me. We're by the bathroom where I had to go, and he waited outside the door.

He waited? My brows furrow.

What does he want?

Why is he being so weird?

I try to ask but he leans in, and he kisses me. And I'm slowly letting my eyes close, slowly puckering up to him. We pull apart and he comes right back for another.

I'm slowly thinking, who cares about Uncle Emmett?

Then the next school year, I'm invisible to him.

. .

. .

* * *

 **A/N:** This will go back and forth from Young (Highschool Leading up to her mother's death) to Younger (Middle school Backstory) to Present. Cool? More coming but slowly. I have to mold this the right way. Send your questions. I know you've got some. Kill me dead if you must. Go on, I've got thicker skin.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3 - Blow

**A/N:** I love the response from you guys. Thank you so, so much. Excited to share this with you all. Seriously, just winging this. We'll see where it goes.

* * *

 **Chapter 3 - Blow**

. .

. .

 **Present**

I lift my face off the tiled floor long enough to blink up at a shadow. It casts over my eyes, my blotchy eyes. I intake air like the after effects of crying for hours. Sucking in sorrow. Sighing out despair.

I see him. His lips grim. Memories coming back of our first kiss.

There were a lot of firsts.

His chest is bare underneath the robe. He stands at the door I left open. He watches. My satchel that he must have fetched from the car is in his hand. The keys in his other hand dangle. He drops both on the mahogany table by the door.

He makes coffee. He knows where everything is. He walks around the kitchen in bare feet over floors that were once splattered with blood. He fills the filter with coffee, then adds the water.

The purr and drip of solace on glass takes up the room.

"Come," he says when he makes it slowly to my side.

I close my eyes. A new prickle of tears makes it down my temples.

"I killed a man. I killed two," I say instead.

He does this dry chuckle as he crouches beside me. "You've killed far more than that. Nothing new."

My heart can't take it, my ears. I cover them. My chin trembles holding back a scream.

"What happened to me?"

"You were shot. You went into a coma for a long time. You forgot. We left it at that."

I shake my head "No. _No."_ He lifts me when I attempt to sit up. I'm on my feet, shaking knees. My eyes set on his chest. His strong arms around me. I dare to look in his eyes.

"I already have this life. Maybe I shouldn't remember."

"You don't want to remember me?" He smiles, chases tears with fingertips.

"Maybe it was meant to be." I seethe. He watches me. This sudden sadness in his eyes and knitted brows. "Mom died because of you, because of your damned family."

He closes his eyes. He presses his forehead to mine. I push him away. He staggers back.

"Who were they? What did she ever do to them?"

He shakes his head. Sighs. He grabs two mugs from a cabinet and places them on the countertop.

"I don't know," he says, his back toward me. Coward.

"You don't know. You're a Cullen. The head of the family. What is it? The Boss? A fucking leader who knows everyone and all things that moves in this town. Gets word on his stupid phone he keeps close. _You_ , Edward Cullen Jr., doesn't know who killed my mother and who tried to kill me?" He doesn't respond.

His profile is raging red. He takes shallow breaths. He's pissed? Well, I'm pissed, too.

The crash is loud, and I missed. He flinches away. He looks back at me. I reach and grab anything in my vicinity.

"Bullshit!" I scream. I swing my arm. He dodges out of the way this time. He looks back at broken glass. His wide eyes back at me. "You did this to us!"

He charges at me when I reach blindly for anything else. I tense. I dive under his arm, and that handle is just an arm's length away. I reach. We slam against the cabinets. I pull. Like straws, I get the luckiest draw. The blade is long and sharp.

I turn and twist my wrist. He's on me, then he's not. He stands back, hands up, legs spread, and muscles tense.

We dance this out.

"Baby," he says. I flip the blade and cut the air.

"Don't you dare call me that."

He looks at my hand then at me. "You see that? I taught you that." His mouth turns up at the thought. It sobers right up when I swing but an inch from his chest. He blinks.

"Enough," he says stern.

I shake my head. "Oh, no. We're just warming up."

I go around the island. He aims the other way. So, I climb it. I stab the marble where his hand flinches away.

"Tell me you did everything in your power to find them and make them pay," I say. He gets close. I shuffle around to the living room. He follows. I pull a shoe off and throw it at him, then the other. He grunts when a heel stabs his gut.

He's red with anger. His eyes pierce from under his lashes.

"That's all you do. Right there." I point at his devil eyes with the blade. "You take, intimidate, and scare. Well, you don't scare me. You don't do shit for anyone but yourself! They took my life away, my mother's and you stood by. You coward!"

I stand on the couch as he gets closer. I climb the side. The lamp goes flying his way by my hand.

I don't know how but he's a mere foot away. Whatever he has hidden behind his back he aims right at me. I yelp.

I look down. My blouse splits apart.

He drew the shortest blade. The unlucky-for-me blade. The metal beams under the sun.

I stare. My chest heaving. "This was my favorite one," I seethe.

He nods once. "I'll buy you another. More. Anything you'll ever need. We'll leave."

"Your dirty, filthy money?"

"Baby, please." Then he cringes.

I flick my knife. The red gash turns crimson red. He holds his side.

"Go to hell," I offer instead.

His jaw goes sharp, so do his eyes.

I reach for my phone and unlock it. Those three digits under my trembling thumb. Fuck him and his family secrets. I'll tell them all.

A wall slams into me. I watch as the phone slides under a table. He's over me. I turn and push at his chin with the heel of my hand. He pins my arm.

I twist and turn. I hook my leg around his back. I'm over him. I bite his chest. He hisses. The growls coming out of him vibrate through my chest. He pushes me. I roll away, ending with a loud crash.

My eyes flutter. Pain shoots up my neck.

This time his legs pin mine, then my arms. Chest to heaving chest.

He lets go of his knife. The blade stuck to the floor by my head where he drove it. "I will hurt you," he says.

I'm panting under him. My hair in disarray. These eyes of mine prickle as my muscles settle. I grow limp, giving up.

He lies. He doesn't see it. "You already have," I tell him.

"I tried," he says. "It's been years, I've killed a lot of men trying to find them. It was impossible; I had to learn to let you go."

"I hate you." Hot tears blur my eyes.

He melts. He pulls me close. His lips ghost over my skin. "You don't. You love me, Bella. You came to me, to this house. Now I refuse to let you go."

The doorbell rings. It rings again and again.

"Bella, it's me!" Jess.

Edward looks up, then he looks at me. His lips are the last thing I feel before he's gone like a nightmare.

. .

. .

I've drawn all the curtains in my room. For the windows that don't have any on the top floor, I pulled a bed sheet up and taped it down. He watched from his house the entire time. Until that very last moment, I covered up his glaring stare.

You know that friend who would help you hide a corpse and ask questions later? Well, that's Jess. The little while I've known her, we've learned to be on the same page.

One time I took her cell phone the entire day so she won't text that guy from work she ended up with, who also happens to be the president of the company. And today, when she came in, I ask her to cover all the windows and lock all the doors once I let her in.

Titt for tatt.

She complies. And when I'm sitting on the floor of the bathroom, she makes room for herself and waits for me to talk.

"I need to get out of here," I say. She nods.

"We'll pack your bags. Where to?"

I chuckle through tears. "You're amazing."

She shrugs. She thinks on what she'll say. "I mean… there was always something about you. I knew you had a story. I've been waiting since I met you to hear it. Someone looking so hurt, moving from the city, back home. There's something." She pauses. "So, what is it?"

I watch her. If I do open up, would her life be in danger? I rest my aching head on my hand.

What _do_ I remember?

The only thing I can conjure up is this, "My mother was murdered. I watched it happen, and I killed the man who did it. I almost died trying."

She's quiet.

"But that's… just the end of it." I continue. "Or at least as much as I can remember. I forgot that part of my life."

"Just that part of it?" she asks.

I think. I think hard. I only remember Edward in high school. His Polara, corduroy pants, and his bad attitude. Edward in middle school; our first kiss that summer and the funny looks he'd give me.

"Everything before. Nothing but Chicago after."

She nods. "So what does that have to do with the crazy man next door?"

I look at her. She shrugs. "You didn't cover the windows on the other side of the house."

I stare at my hands.

"He has everything to do with it."

. .

. .

 **Young**

"I haven't seen Alice in a while," Mom says. She pulls out of the grocery store we've just raided. We only shop once a month. Different trips to different stores to get the best sales. It takes up the entire day.

I don't think she's ever noticed how many steps there are to groceries shopping. It's exhausting. After making all the calculations and you're sure you're picking the best price for the most value, you put it in the cart. You do that five hundred times. Then, you wait in a lengthy line, and when it's your turn to drop it all on the conveyer belt, ring up every item, you're a hawk to make sure all the sales were rung up correctly. Then you put everything back in the cart in bags to transport to the car. And lastly, you drag your ass along with each bag into the house to sort.

Fuck grocery shopping.

Mom looks over at me when I don't answer. "You have a bad attitude."

I do.

I've had a bad attitude for a very long time. I can't control it. I've noticed since that odd interaction with Edward in class the other day. He stares now. Everywhere I go, and he's near, he stops, dead in his tracks, and stares at me. Pete laughs his ass off. Edward, never.

Monday morning I'll have his head if he does it again.

"She has new friends now. Cheerleading squad, remember?" I say flatly.

"So, why don't you make friends with them?"

I roll my eyes. She doesn't get it. No group traverses from one to the other in high school.

"I don't cheer."

She shrugs. "Maybe you should."

I peel my eyes away from the window to glare at her. It takes a moment. We crack a grin at that idea. Then she's laughing at the impossible. Give me a mountain of books and a bed and I'm happy as a clam. She reads the trashy magazines.

"I'll catch up with her next weekend. Besides, who would you drag along to these excessive events you enjoy doing every month?"

She smiles. "Daughter of the year." Yeah, we share the same sarcasm gene.

I could be out with Vick and Bree, but Mom doesn't really have friends in this town, so I stay sometimes. People talk. Dad made buddies with the Cullen clan, and suddenly, you're a disgrace to the neighborhood. Not like we're not used to it. It's been years now. And it's not like Dad can walk away from it unscathed.

Who do you go to when even cops are knocking on Dad's door to get a deal or two every now and then? Dad adds this turbo to a getaway car here, adds bulletproof paneling to another car there. In return, we get looks.

With Mom's extra looks on top of that, you've got a perfect formula for trouble… and sneers from other wives. It's why I dress the way I do. It's why I hide. Like mother like daughter. Why add to the fire?

I get scared stares from mean girls at school. I like it. I get no shit problems coming my way because of this gig Dad never talks about.

Especially after that one time in eighth grade. 'Don't mess with Bella,' is what everyone says.

Inside, I'm scared, hating confrontation. I want people to like me. But that ship has sailed.

No friends now. Like I care.

Mom and I go on city runs all the time to get away. Dad encourages it. Anything to get us away from home for long periods of time. We shop, have lunch, get pedicures to pass the time, and visit her mom still living there with her younger sister. It's an all women's event when we stay a couple of days; baking, facials, and gossiping about everything and nothing at the warm kitchen table. We don't miss out on much here in town.

I already have my eyes on colleges in the city I'll be applying to. I can feel it in my bones—freedom.

Why haven't we moved? I've asked, but just once. Mom tried to look busy. Dad fumbled to say something along the lines of 'broke as fuck.' So, we're stuck. That's that.

We turn into the driveway getting our muscles ready to grab all the bags and make twenty trips. The trunk open, Mom in the kitchen already with a load inside, probably sitting on the toilet peeing already. She always does this, strategically taking her time so I'll do most of it.

I huff. My hands at my hips staring at the plastic (sans paper) bags in a mountain.

I reach for one, and so does another set of hands.

I start, looking up.

My words get stuck in my throat.

I look around me, and the uncles are piling out of a Bentley on the Cullen lot. Edward Senior glances our way with a nod. He's in a suit. His dirty blonde locks combed back, his hands at the lapels of his jacket buttoning it up. He sent his evil son over to lend a helping hand.

Edward pulls a handful of bags, more than I could ever carry. He looks at me.

My eyes narrow.

He walks away toward my front door. I have no choice but to follow.

What do you say? "Don't touch my lettuce with your filthy hands?" I don't. I stare at his shoulders instead. His t-shirt, old and yellow with some advertisement in black letters, a hole at the seam, fitted just right. His back muscles tense with the effort. Moving. Just like they do when he's…

I cringe. _Bella, you're disgusting._

I don't get to say any words. He drops the bundle on the kitchen floor and charges past me. Not before his arm bumps into mine.

"Preparing for the apocalypse? Shit," he says when I reach the trunk again. He grabs more bags.

I roll my eyes. "It's called poor man's coupon game. You wouldn't recognize it."

I look up and he's gone, ignoring me. I sigh and make my way inside, just in time to witness Mom stepping out of the bathroom, jumping out of her skin seeing a man in the house.

"Ma'am," he says and walks out to get more. I look at her and roll my eyes. She tentatively takes a step into the kitchen.

Back at the trunk, I try to gauge his expression. He hasn't been inside my house in ages. He doesn't seem to phased by it. Definitely not bringing up the classroom incident either.

I carry in the last of the bags. He's leaving the kitchen and is suddenly grabbing the bundles from my hands as I'm halfway through the door. Our hands meet, skin to skin. Blood flowing. Oils mixing. Epidermis mingling. Molecules wiggling.

Damn. Biology.

On his way to bend down for that transfer, he gets close, and I watch the ridges of his lips and wonder why that part looks smoother and just the right pink to his complexion.

Mom has this glass of water in her hand, and she's reaching to pass it over like he's done hard labor for hours under the sun. I'm chopped liver. Dry lips and throat, watching.

And why are we standing here? Or me? I don't know what Mom is saying, but she's blabbering loud from the pantry, putting stuff away, and he's watching me over the brim of the ice-cold glass he has to his lips. The bottom glistening, slightly dripping wet down to his forearm with a bit on his t-shirt.

That's me. I'm the glass. Right between my legs. I'm horrified. Taken. Shaken. Deceiving body taking over. My lips part.

He swallows that last gulp and says not a word as he sets it down in the sink like a gentleman. Those devious eyes on me say otherwise.

Mom and I watch him close the door behind him, leaving us breathless. Well, me.

Just me.

"He, um. He just…" I let out, pointing a thumb. It's all I can muster when Mom looks at me. I aim straight for the bathroom…to clean up.

The rest of the night I'm a zombie. Speechless. Shameful. Embarrassed at my reaction. We sort everything and clean up. We cook. Dad will be home soon.

But that shouting. I can hear it from the kitchen. Mom looks out the windows over the sink. She sighs, shaking her head. "Damn animals. Poor kids have to live in that… mess."

I say nothing. I'm wondering what they're yelling at Edward about this time.

"Is he a good kid in school?" she asks. "He looks so much like his father, it's uncanny. It scared the crap out of me. I thought he was in here."

I humph. "Trust me, he's weird. He's the troublemaker," I say about the former. Then, I kick myself. Why did I say that? Because...in one point five seconds I know what she'll say…

"Stay away from him, okay? He's not going down the right path. I can tell." She looks at me from washing dishes. "You hear me?" She says it like she's dying inside, hoping I'll listen. Well, if only she knew we're silent enemies.

I shrug. "He's the oddball. Everyone's afraid of him."

"You, too?" she asks.

Am I? I'm afraid whatever is brewing in our tense stares will blow one day. Something tragic will happen. Yes, I'm afraid. Maybe he'll kill me, maybe I'll kill him. I don't know.

"Pfft. Please." I tie the garbage bag and swing open the kitchen door. The yard is desolate and pitch dark. Just the glow of the Cullen house lights up the way to the trash cans. I reach them and witness the shouting in high definition.

"Give the boy a chance. He can get the job done," one of them says. His grandfather. Always soft spoken. He used to sit in his chair, in his robe, staring at the TV when I was younger. I'm sure it's still the same.

"Look at him! He doesn't have one responsible bone in his body. He takes and takes, living in this house, never giving anything back!"

"He will if he gets this job, Senior. He's good. But, how will he ever learn?"

I hear a ruckus. Maybe a chair crashing.

"Anthony, please!" Edward's mother.

I listen as Senior forbids Edward from going anywhere near McCarthy, whoever that is.

Senior is what they've always called Edward's father. Everyone except his wife who calls him Anthony. I've heard Edward himself call him Senior; not Dad, or Pops, or anything affectionate toward a parent.

Edward's mother goes off yelling at her husband. Conversation over. Not a peep from Jasper or Emmett.

The back door swings open from their side. I suddenly think I should hide.

The subject sees me. He's balling his fists and letting go. He's breathing like he'll kill a man. Anger gripping him. I'm standing here frozen, unblinking.

He comes closer. Each step he takes from the porch makes me quake. He climbs the fence as if it were twigs stuck in the ground.

Sparks go flying.

Flames ignite.

I stand back and watch this happen.

We blow.

He catches my arm and curls it around his neck. He kisses me. I hang on heavily. Jello knees and static nerves up my arms. He crashes in, and I do nothing but accept, so quickly, like I've been waiting for this.

Where is this hunger coming from? I'm gripping his hair, moving to his neck, down to his shirt. He's gripping everywhere. He pulls at my hair, we pull apart. He's watching me. Fluttered lids on my part.

Nothing is happening above, but below my belly tenses. He delves deep into my waistband, the one thing I would never let him do in school. He feels now what he does to me. What he did to me in my kitchen. Like he knew. The unthinkable. His fingers sliding. My chest heaving. He bites my lip, and we start this frenzy again. My head is cradled in the crook of his elbow. I've fallen there.

I've fallen.

 _I'll stay away from him, Mom. I won't press into his chest, taste his lips, and let him do all of this. Not ever. He's vile and dangerous._

I let out a strangled sound, and he lets go, like if the sound woke him. Us two, arms at our sides, nothing to say.

I turn and walk into the house.

. .

. .

 **Younger**

There's a shaking fear in my stomach. The one that's so strong I can barely function. This is how I feel every time math class comes around. I want to cry.

Jane is a bully. I haven't told Mom. I haven't told anybody. But her stares and snickers my way paralyze me. I'm stuck to my desk. The teacher sees but doesn't seem to do anything about it. No one does.

I'm alone.

Alice is in advanced math. She's the only friend I have, but she's far away.

They bully her, too, but never in her face. I'm the friend, so I'm the second choice.

My head spins. I lay it on my arm. My puffy coat works as a pillow. I never take it off. It's hard to sleep at night when all you can think of is going back to school to deal with mean girls. I don't know why, I haven't done anything to make them mad.

From my comfy elbow, I see Ben turn to me. He looks up at the clan, then he looks at me. It's weird. He's popular. People like him a lot. He's tough, athletic, and punches kids in the nose when they start lunchroom fights with him. What they don't know is he's sweet as toffee inside. He shares his notes when I forget my notebook. He passes over a pencil wordlessly when I can't find mine in my book bag.

He does his homework. I copy the sheet before he hands it in when I don't do mine. He watches me while I scribble the answers. He never judges. And when it's extra cold out, and snow is on the ground, my legs comfortably nestle under his long warm ones during class. He doesn't mind.

I like him.

But that's just it. If I like him, it means I get enemies. He tells me through his teeth to go pounce on them or he will. I shake my head at him. He can't hit girls.

"But you can, Bella," he says.

Then, I turn my head to my right and wait for it. Every day, after the bell rings, I watch Edward pass by the door on his way to his class. He's always late.

At first, he didn't notice me. He'd pass by and never looked in. But that one day, the clan said something to me while the teacher stepped out, and the desk scraped the floor when Ben stood to stare them down, Edward looked. Now he always looks in.

They said something about Dad. Something awful. I was confused. What did Dad's job have anything to do with this?

I asked Mom when I got home, and she sighed heavily with sudden tears in her eyes. She said I'd always be around people and gossip. That Dad's work is tough and requires a lot of extra work. Being friends with Cullens isn't always easy.

I realized then that I'm ridiculed for what Dad does everyday.

It's embarrassing. I get home, and I fight again with Mom. I yell at her when the badgering from others only gets worse. She shouts across the yard as I take off on my bike this time. I don't care.

I don't want this life. I didn't ask for it.

I speed across the neighborhood and find that Bodega everyone goes to. An alley beside it has a basketball court. Kids hang out before the streetlights go on. Then they all trail back home every night. I never get to come. I'm not allowed to on school nights.

I stop at the fence and try to breathe it out. Maybe wipe at tears. But I do it fast before anyone notices.

I hear laughing and snap my head to my right. My blood gets pumping, anxiety shoots through my bones thinking it's the clan again.

They aren't looking at me, and they're definitely not as prim and preppy as the girls in math class. One of them sucks on a cigarette, the other wears deep, red lipstick.

"Bella?"

I jump. I look up. The fence is between us, but sure enough, it's Edward. I can't speak.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. He comes close and sees my eyes. "Someone bothering you?" He looks around. "Tell me who, I'll kick their ass."

It's been two summers, and now he talks to me? I roll my eyes.

"Nobody. It's nothing…" I pause, "like you care."

He watches me. The girls look over. Suddenly everyone is looking over. At me? No, Edward. Anything he does people follow. I grow red still. I kick the bike pedal to escape.

"Is it those girls? In your class?"

I don't answer.

"You scared of them?" He insists. I cut my eyes to his.

"No," I bite. I also lie. What do you do when everyone hates you? It's terrifying.

"They're just jealous because you're pretty," he says, before he takes a puff of his cigarette. He looks older. Taller. But I've been invisible to him.

I look into his eyes. They look right back.

"You're prettier than all of them. You know that right?" he says again. He gets close and hooks his fingers through the metal links.

I gawk.

I come to and pedal away. He finds the exit to the cage and comes running.

"Hey!"

"Leave me alone," I say.

I'm jostled. The bike halts. He grabs the seat, my ass a mere inch away. I stagger and jump off when I lose balance. The bike tumbles to the ground.

"What the hell!" I yell. I push at him.

He pushes back. It's so hard I almost fall over.

My breathing is all off. The sunset is a glow over his eyes, they sparkle.

But I see red.

His family. My dad. They've all brought me trouble. Him. Ignoring me. He kissed me once, then I'm invisible? Girls talk about boys; they ask who's your first? I can't tell them, no one, that it was a boy we all hate and are scared of. A boy I stare at now and just see red.

I swing back my fist and punch him. He closed his eyes, like he waited for it.

I stand back. I'm panting. He turns his cheek and looks at me.

He says, "Good. Now harder." His fingers beckon for me to try again. I take a step back. He grabs my fist and pulls me hard toward him. "Like this. Follow through when you punch. Don't pop it; push, like there's something behind me you're trying to get to." He curls my fingers in a harder fist. He points at his cheek.

"Do it again," he says.

I shake my head. He's crazy. He's different, and he's crazy. Uncle Emmett has shown him everything.

My heart starts pumping out of fear now. I reach for the bike to run away, but he stops me.

I hiss. I let go of the handlebars to reach back at my hair where he grips it.

"Edward!" I shout. He has me firmly by the crown of my head.

"When they come at you, you take them like this." He tugs a little. "You feel that?" He wraps an arm around my chest, his mouth by my ear.

Tears spill down my cheeks.

"You cry later. Not now, Bella, later. Kick my ass first." He shakes me. "Get angry."

I am. I'm getting really pissed.

"Fuck you," I spit. I elbow him in the rib and stomp on his foot with all my might. He groans and loses his grip. I shake him off.

His eyes kind of grow big before I punch him again. This time, a fire in me. I see that spot behind him, and I aim for that. His head snaps back. I make a fist again. He stops it with a palm. He grabs me and pulls my arms behind my back. I struggle.

He smirks a little, looking down at me. I'm pathetically trying to pull away. He spits on the ground to his left. Blood goes flying out of his lips.

"Good. Just like that," he says. I'm breathing hard. Every puff through my flared nostrils. We stare at one another.

Woots and hollering. The girls were watching. They clap where they sit. "Yeah! Kick his ass!" one of them says.

I push him away. I'm on my bike and pedaling away with all my strength.

Then, when I'm in class and Ben's eyes are angry again, I know it's a different day. It feels different.

The teacher is at his desk. The class is doing a test, and the girls are writing notes on paper they rumple up and throw my way. Ben is the one who reads them. I get that fire in me again when I catch a word over his shoulder.

 _Criminal_.

I stand on my chair and then my desk. Everyone looks up as I make my way down the line of tabletops. It's quick. I never slip.

I swing back and punch one on her lip from above. I have the other's pretty hair mopping the class floor in no time. She screams and thrashes. Her skirt goes up to her waist. The roar of the classroom booms, but I don't hear them. I hear a swish, swish, swish in my ears and her screams as I make my way out to the hallway, her thick blonde locks in my fist.

One hop over her waist and I have her pinned. I don't stop until someone pulls me off. Crowds of people are all around.

"You don't say shit about my father, you bitch!" I scream.

The teacher grabs me and takes me away, concern in his eyes as he pats my back softly. A good student never reacts this way.

Then, I go home and cry my eyes out. I guess silent anger really is the explosive and deadly kind. That's what Mom says as she hugs me.

All I remember are Edward's eyes, him standing down the hallway, witnessing everything. Knowing I definitely went farther than what he taught me.

I did too much.

The next day, Vick and Bree in red lips let me sit at their lunch table, because all anyone can do is stare.

. .

. .


	4. Chapter 4 - Pink

**A/N: Not sure how much more I'll write about her younger years in middle school, but the rest will definitely be of her young years in highschool leading up to her mother's death with some present-day bits. Then, it'll fade to all present-day storytelling only. Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving if you're from the states. If not, I hope your Thursday was as pleasant as ever.**

 **This is a puzzle I'm trying to put together. Thanks for your patience.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4 - Pink**

 **Young**

I lie in bed that night. I will not look out the window. I won't.

He kissed me. I kissed him back. My belly tenses when I remember his hand. The feeling.

Oh, God. I cringe. I press my face into my pillow. Maybe if I press hard enough I'll … die.

What would Vick and Bree say? Fuck, if Alice found out…

I groan louder. I pull my hair at the crown of my head. I wash my face. I stay under the faucet, drowning. I'll just … die.

Alice got in late. I heard her car from her lot. I usually grab the receiver from my room and call her private number. Her clear, see-through phone with the colorful nuts and bolts sits by her bed. Lucky bitch gets to talk on the phone all hours of the night.

I have this old chipped phone with a long cord. Mom tells me she'll buy me another. I almost yelled, "No!" When she offered. I'll never get rid of this phone. It's made for spying.

Once I'm on it, I can tell when someone else in the house has picked up in another room. The receiver squeaks. The moment I hear it I don't speak. I yell, "Ma, I'm on the phone!" She begrudgingly hangs up. When the coast is clear, I continue our conversation. Alice knows the drill.

Not tonight. She will hear it in my voice. The terror. The horror. The audible arousal. Heat all over my body.

I sigh. For the first time ever, when the room is dark, and it only gets the glow from his room through my window, I go find the place where he touched. I crash down that slippery slope.

Literally.

It's terrifying to feel myself losing control. Him behind my eyelids.

…

"What the fuck is up his ass?" Vick asks. Alice looks over her shoulder. She rolls her eyes.

"Who knows? Sick of his shit," she says about her brother.

Wednesday morning we're at our usual spot having lunch. Bree twists a pliable, rubbery gum around her finger. Her lipstick pristine, her vintage military coat and ripped mesh stockings not so much.

"I'd fuck him if that's what he's looking for," she says.

Alice makes a face. "Stay away from my brother, dirty bitch."

Bree rolls her eyes. "You've got that wrong, sugar. He's been around and about far more than any of these fishes we've got to choose from."

She can't argue with that. But death to any girl who finds her way into his car. Alice has a lot of enemies. She's stubborn, unforgiving and has sharp nails. The difference between Alice and me is she doesn't hesitate. She lashes out. There have been a lot of fights in the girl's bathroom. Vick and Alice are a tag team.

Hence me staying real quiet. Hence my limbs trembling. He's watching me from afar. It's me, not anyone else.

They don't know.

I can't eat. I can't sleep. I've been avoiding all windows in my house.

Friday night, we're at the court. It's not for basketball anymore. A bar opened in the old building beside it. Some kids get in, others hang out around it. It's stupid, it's so stupid, but there's nothing to do here but walk around town and end up here. We shoot the shit, smoke, and do whatever devious things come to mind.

The cars come piling in; they park and blare music from old speakers. Tailgating, hood-lounging, anything to get away from the house and badgering parents.

Pete is whispering to a girl by the brick wall. Bree is fuming. She tries not to show it, but she's hurt. I grab her hand between us, the hood of Alice's car still warm beneath us. She hangs on for a while, but when he gets in the car far away with the girl in the back seat, she shakes me off. She goes for another poor chump across the street. It's fast, panther-like. She has him like putty in her arms. It's a talent.

I'm pretty sure Vick hates no one. I've never really seen her with a guy. Well, one. There are always two or more, and she doesn't do much but talk. She's loud. Smart. Witty. And brings in new people into the tight-knit circle who no one ever thought would fit in. They go from nerd to stud, from mousy to comedian in a matter of days. She sees gold. She sees the best in people and brings them out into the light. Well, the dim ones at least, the streetlights that beam down over us.

People hover around her. They laugh and watch her chug on a forty right from the paper bag. No breathing. Alice stands by and follows her everywhere. They're the extroverts. Bree and I, we're the bleeding hearts.

The back door to the bar opens.

A chain of guys from other neighborhoods spill out. Some are older, out of high school. We mix in, a fusion of taste, street cred, drugs, sex, and fucking great music.

If Mom knew this is where I hang, she'd have my head.

Then comes Edward behind them. The bar spills out loud music and smoke. He steps out, and it isn't new that he gets to go inside anytime he wants. After all, Dad isn't the only one in town with tight affiliations with the Cullen men. What the Cullen's invest in, Edward gets free passes.

His fingers curl around a bottle neck. I look at those and squirm. I look left. I look right. I'm suddenly all alone.

Ben drives up just in time. He climbs out, and girls go after him without hesitating. His smile is wide. He looks around. I wait.

It always happens without fail.

He spots me, and his smile turns tender. A smirk forms its way to his plump lips. He never goes on with his day without folding me into a tight embrace.

I hang on this time. I didn't know how much I needed it. I sneak into the crook of his neck where leather meets warm skin. Just when I should probably let go, I don't. He does that dance where he squeezes again.

"You all right?" he says by my ear. All I do is nod.

He kisses my lips. A peck. It's like night and day. No spark. No caved knees under me, not like before. Now it's … I want to cry.

It feels different. I don't tell him this. I'll tell no one. But just this past weekend things changed. Now he's a saving grace. A guy I love dearly who helped me get through a lot of shit. I'm hoping this is another thing he can lend an ear for.

I've always wanted more with him. He's felt it, too. At that party a few months back it almost did happen. But Ben always has too much on his plate. The proof is standing by waiting for this exchange to finish; girls, all ages.

I pull him away by his jacket and smile. He watches closely. He knows something is off, but maybe it's not the time.

"Later," I tell him.

As if I've made a siren call, the subject of this ache in my chest comes creeping in. I open my eyes over Ben's shoulder after another hug and Edward is standing there, not a foot away.

My stomach plummets. I freeze up.

Ben turns and sees. He nods. "Sup, man?" he offers. He looks at Edward from head to beat up sneakers. He sidesteps him because Edward doesn't move—he's never the one to move.

Edward says nothing. He watches only me. "I got what you wanted," he says, and hands me over his half-filled beer. He walks away with this look in his eyes.

Word play. One sentence, two different meanings. He does have something I never thought I wanted.

Bree watches from far away. Ben is quickly distracted, not really thinking anything of it, and now he's left, too.

I'm left reeling.

My hands wrap around a lukewarm beer, label half off. I look down at it.

I find his eyes; he's sitting in his car. I bring the bottle to my lips. I take a sip. His smart mouth to my trembling lips.

Lukewarm, to warmth, to heat.

I can't breathe because I know that when we meet again, and no eyes are around to witness this bubble, we will blow.

. .

. .

Sunday morning. I'm trying to find an excuse to stay home. I'm hiding in my bed, under my quilt. I hear Mom clacking around in her shoes; Sunday's best. The smell of bacon in the air. Warm coffee. Her yelling for me to wake up.

I'm ignoring her. She knows it. But I'm not going to Mass.

I turn my head at the sound of Dad tapping a few knuckles on my bedroom door.

"Bella, we're gonna be late."

I take a deep breath, or I'll yell at him. Anger riles up. I hear him walk away.

I push the quilt down from over my face and find that window far across from mine. He's in there. In his house. In his room. I know it. He sleeps in on Sundays. He fucks around all week and Saturday. He's out all night doing … everything. But Sundays, he starts new. He rests. He makes amends with his mother and Alice. He takes out the trash he fixes his car, fills up the tank, runs errands for his mom. Her caressing love follows the sharp line of his jaw with her hand. Wonder in her eyes.

He's a loving son. He's human again.

I've watched it before.

On days when no one is in the house, and I'm alone, I see him being a son his mother would be proud of. On these days, it's my only chance to be quiet in something soft and warm; a big sweater over an old T-shirt. All I need is coffee the way I like it. I guess I'm human again on days like these, too.

Soon enough, I hear Mom's annoyed voice from the door announcing her disappointment in me for not going today.

No. I'm going nowhere. I need _me_ time. To think. To figure out a plan to communicate with him that the kiss was a mistake.

But that beer, warmed by his hands, his lips on that bottleneck is all I can think of. I got a mouthful to taste.

I sneak out of bed and find that sweater. Bare feet on Sundays feels like heaven, like freedom, like you're in your most raw state, being reborn again. I sigh at that porcelain clink over and over again, as I mix the cream and sugar in. Clarity in a cup.

I get my muscles ready to veg on the couch or my bed, whichever I feel like attacking. This time, I think I want to be in the living room to watch that movie again. I leave the kitchen and enter the cold hallway.

The door is nudged.

I look at that.

I reach the living room and, yes, I saw it; the knob turned. I straddle the threshold of the warm living room and the cold hallway. Desolate. No sounds. The creak under my foot puts me at ease. It was just me.

I take a step further, and there it is again. The knob definitely turned, but this time the lock is loose, and the knob turns fully.

The door swings open. I'm frozen in place.

I don't yelp, or cry out, or let the cup slip through my fingers like I would've on any given day. I'm a brand new human on a Sunday who's been secretly waiting for this moment. I woke this morning knowing something would change me today.

I stare into Edward's eyes. They're dark; lids puffy with sleep. His t-shirt is inside out, a ghosted print over his chest. He twirls a knife in his hand, and it disappears into his pocket.

His jeans were pulled on hastily over chucks, no socks, the cuffs folded unceremoniously. No time to waste for what he needed to do.

Barge in.

He gives the door a push, and it slams shut behind him. Blindly, he turns the lock, attaches the bolt, and ties a knot in my belly all at the same time.

He gets close. A few steps and I can smell the soap on his skin, his warmth. His hair is still damp.

He tugs at the mug in my hands and takes it away. He looks down at it. He brings it to his lips, drinks, then brings it to mine.

"Take a sip," he says, like it's the last time I ever will.

I do, from his hands. I sip up the heat and it trickles down my throat.

He takes it away when I'm done. He disappears through the kitchen, and I hear the liquid going down the drain, porcelain against a sink. He appears in front of me and grabs my hand.

There's no hurry it seems. He takes every step deliberately. He does remember the inside of this house after all; up the stairs, down the hall away from my parents' room, the door to the right. He pushes it open and pulls me inside.

I'm suddenly looking around, panic taking me, the mess of clothes scattered. I always clean up the night before the week begins as a fresh start. He's caught me in my most true phase. The scattered Bella.

He doesn't seem to even look anywhere else but my bed.

He pulls my sweater down my arms. When he gets to the hem of my dress, I stop him. He looks at me.

Green eyes are clear as morning, well aware. Crisp, mint hues, capture my wide stare. I try to keep my panting to a minimum.

I look at him, I really look at him. He's decided this long ago. He's bullheaded and clear-headed, and he knows what he wants.

I let go of his hands. He goes on with this mystery as he pulls on the dress. My hair trickles down over my shoulders to my bare chest. He looks at that. His hand comes up to twirl a few locks around his fingers. He sighs. His eyelids flutter a little.

He grabs my neck. He pulls. He catches my lips.

It's adamant at first, and then it isn't. I'm pulling on his hair, and he pulls on mine. And soon enough I've melted against him. We fall over the bed.

We blow.

His hand stretches out my waistband, and his fingers push into me. I never would've fathomed how it would feel with his hand. He finds every string in my heart and pulls.

I let my head fall back and cry out when it crashes down on me. It's intense, alien, and terrifying. Tears spill down my temples. I've never surrendered so entirely to a feeling. It lingers for eternity. All he does is watch me shatter.

He stands, and I'm too weak to move or care enough to panic from my exposed state. I watch him through droopy eyelids as he pulls off his t-shirt.

"Show me, I want to see you," he says looking down at me. I don't know what he means. I'm still catching my breath, but I seek out his eyes and what they're hooked to below.

I press my knees together even more. Heat rises up my neck. I go to sit up or crawl away to the edge of the bed, but he grabs my ankle, then my hip. He pulls until I'm free from my plain, white underwear.

My instinct is to curl up. I'm mortified.

"I've seen you in here," he says. "Practically every night. I imagined it as pink as your mouth."

I close my eyes. I'm … speechless. I could never say what I've seen through his window. I look at him from under my lashes where I sit, wanting to crawl under the sheets and hide.

I'm naked. Edward in my room watching.

"Did you feel me? Did you ever think of me?" he asks.

He kills me.

I'm panting. Sweat trickles down my neck.

"I … uh … Edward ..." I fumble. This is me now, fumbling. I'm one of those girls I saw in his bedroom. Just the thought tenses me up. Oh, God …

"I'm one of those girls," I say out loud.

He narrows his eyes for a moment, unsure of what I mean. Lost in thought, he looks out my window. His face changes when he gets it. He looks at me. He shakes his head.

"Not even close. You're the girl with the dark hair and the right hook when we were kids. Who lives across the yard and keeps quiet, reads until she falls asleep—still does. You're good, too good, but there's this something. Don't mess with Bella …" He shakes his head. "I fucking love that, the fire. No one sees it, but I do. I know you. I've always wanted you," he says.

I stare.

We dwell in this silence.

What does he mean? He's never considered me, never seemed to have thought twice about me. Not after our first kiss. Not passing by in the school hallways. I think back. I try to see it.

This anger curls inside me. Has it been a game or pity? The unfortunate; me. Him watching like a hawk, like some hero if I needed help? That's all he did.

No. He doesn't know what I want, what I've held out for—my breath, my hope. Deep inside I hoped for him to talk to me, at the least. I've waited too long for him. All of this, now? And I'm sure as hell not a charity case or Charlie's poor girl who needs looking after if that's what he thinks. He doesn't know what I'm capable of.

With every angry breath I take, I slowly let my guard down … and slowly let my knees part. This feeling comes over me I can't explain. I lift my chin up high and find purchase on my elbows behind me. One right foot toward his left thigh, one left foot toward his right. I part my legs just like he asked.

"Then show me," I dare him.

He looks, and his chest fills up with a single breath.

"Bella," he whispers. His eyes flutter again.

"Take them off," I demand about his pants.

He shakes his head, takes me in with a look of wonder. "You're crazy," he says.

I sit up and reach for the bed sheets to cover up. It's all a joke to him, always has been.

"You don't know me. You don't know shit about me," I say.

He reaches for his fly and lets the teeth of his zipper hastily cut the silence. He toes off his shoes and stands there naked in front of my bed.

And I was right all this time; grown like his father, rock solid all over—above and below. I sigh. His abs ripple with every breath that comes out of his flared nostrils.

He digs into a pocket and throws the small squared packet. It lands on my stomach.

"Don't you dare move," he says, pulling at the sheets.

I grab the packet, and it's not like I haven't tried this with Ben. The difference now is, every stitch of my clothing is off, I won't stop this, I want this, and my heart is hammering in my chest.

He climbs over the bed, and I know what this looks like from behind him, far away through a window. It's just another perspective, but he's never been this present or determined. He kneels between me, on his knees, and I while I put my hands on him to sheath him with the rubber, he thumbs the pink he so curiously wondered about. One finger, two; he pushes, curls them inside me and watches. I drop everything twice to grip his arm and writhe, my head in the skies.

He doesn't let me pull my hands away when I manage to finish with him. "Touch me," he says. I claw at his hips and up his chest. Nails digging in. Fingers trembling over his skin.

"Don't play with me," I say, looking up at him. I mean it, in every way.

He presses himself over me. His tongue languidly passes over a nipple. He hangs on until I'm weak and his cheeks hollow out. A bruise is left in his wake.

"First mark," he says. He looks into my eyes. "You're mine now."

I'm a panting mess.

"Wrap your legs around me," I hear him say, but far away. I crack my eyes open long enough from my stupor to look at him. "Do it," he says with a kiss. He bends his knees and leans his hands on either side of my head.

I feel him there, where I'm dripping. He moves. This is real, not a moment of wonder watching every drop of sweat from a glass he's holding in the kitchen. I'm under him. Bones and flesh all over me, feeling his wet lips chasing after every shiver and tremble in my chest.

He waits. My legs fail me once, twice, with the lack of strength. I try again and wrap them around his waist.

Then there's fire. He pushes through every inch. I'm all teeth clamping down on my lip, then his shoulder. Silent screams. He bucks in and out until he goes in sharp.

I cry out.

He hooks my leg that slipped off over his elbow and then he slowly pushes into me. He watches what I do. His hips move until I find my way back to surface and open up my eyes. Soon enough I'm reciprocating under him.

He rushes in hard. "Now I fucking know you," he says. He watches me lose my breath and find it again.

He takes my lips, he licks. He thumbs away sweat from my temples.

Then I'm meeting him, I'm giving into this frenzy that builds, an upward spiral.

This feels like too much. I grab onto his shoulders, his chest, anything to brace myself. We find this rhythm, and I don't even know myself. I'm this being, taken over. Body and soul, grasping but losing every last bit of this tame inside me, the one I've had a hold of all my life.

I wrap myself around him, his long torso, his shapely back, his ass. I hold on and bite his neck. I'm never letting him go.

"Fuck," he murmurs by my ear when I'm just too loud with every stroke. I can't hold back. It feels beyond what I thought it would. He grips my hair, and we're mad, we're wild. Like we knew this would happen one day. And what he said just now, is exactly what we do every single time we find ourselves alone, any chance we get.

To hell with moral doubt and past hookups: Ben, Edward's harem of mean girls who've met his bed … we're sick, shameless, and relentless.

Bree watches me closely at lunch during the week but never comes out with it. Not even when he's staring from his spot like he does every day and everyone is suspecting. Well, she is.

I say nothing.

I bury it in the abyss of my secrets, but feel all of him on the surface, every waking moment.

I stand. I can't take it anymore. "Bathroom," I say. But what I do is leave the building. I hop over a bush at the side of the building and through that open fence behind the boilers. Soon enough, I feel him following behind me.

My muscles hum. And right against the brick wall, he pushes into me after I frantically pull at my jeans. My cheek presses into the coarse bricks. I moan and pant. He covers my mouth with a hand to keep me quiet, but my mind screams. It says, 'consume me, chew me up, and swallow.' His other hand circling, inducing the most delicious feeling of relief between my legs. All morning I held it in.

Because last night—when it was my turn to take out the trash, and Mom was by the sink doing the dishes and watching that show she loves so much every weekday—was only enough to get me through the night. How he waited on his porch knowing I'd step out. And how cold the siding of my house felt against my back as he pounded into me, holding up my legs in the middle of the garden. My sweater stuffed through my lips, my nightdress lopsided, bunched under my chin. No underwear. Not after my shower after school … I just knew.

The soles of my dirty feet over the kitchen floor after, were the only visible proof anything happened. The tremble of my knees subtle, and just for me to notice—like the ache between my legs.

I knew I needed more. So much more.

I nearly jumped in place when Mom spoke up from the fridge, telling me something that has been killing me all day.

Now I hug the wall, trying to breathe, and it comes to me again. I turn into his arms and bury myself under his chin.

He waits. He knows it's something. I guess he does know me. He pulls up my jeans around my waist for me and waits for that tragic something, while his hands wander. He presses his lips here and there.

"I won't be in town this weekend. I'll be in Chicago with Mom."

He doesn't respond.

"You hear me?" I try again.

"Clearly. So, what's the problem?"

I sigh. It's a big, huge problem. I hang on to his collar and look at him with all the dread I can muster.

He smirks. "You'll miss me?" he asks amused. I roll my eyes and pull away. I find my legs and make the trek back to lunch.

He catches my arm and kisses me hard.

"I have to help Senior anyway. There's some … complications. I know where to find you," he says when I furrow my brows. He's never talked about … that. He's never talked about his father. Well, I've never talked to Edward period. We haven't really been doing much of that at all.

He goes ahead of me, and when he's far away from my lunch table, I see him have his lunch and lick his fingers, too.

"Why are you grinning? I don't think I've ever seen you grinning. Is this bitch grinning?" Bree asks the girls and points. "Did you take a big shit? Took you long enough to get back," she says. She has skeptical eyes. Everyone's aim my way, too, even Alice's.

I will never tell them there's a guy in this room who enjoys his lunch with a hint of me mixed in.

Then the weekend comes and goes … excruciatingly slow and with much difficulty. My mind ran through every single touch between us, repeatedly. But Dad's face is ashen when we see him. Mom asks and asks. He quietly tells her from the kitchen while I watch from the hallway.

There are no grinning faces. No places to hide and kiss. The entire town is in mourning, or shocked. Everyone witnessed the body of Edward Cullen Senior being dragged down Main Street, cut up and dead, tied to a car.

I watch Mom cover her mouth with a hand. Her feelings are mine. I jog upstairs to my room; I stare out the window to their house, to his room.

All the lights are out.

. .

. .


	5. Chapter 5 - Darts

**A/N: It's been eons. Hello and sorry. I've been uninspired, but then it came in waves ... at work. Rolls eyes. Hope your holidays were great. Mine brought me a five pound mini me baby niece. So, obv she's cute. ;-) Snort. Thanks to Frannie for editing this. This 'Present' first section is continuation of Chapter 3's 'present'.  
**

 **Adults only, please.  
On that note:** **How many of you out there? Curious. Say hello.**

* * *

 **Chapter 5 – Darts**

 **Present**

Jess was probably an escape artist in another life. My belongings were packed in a matter of seconds after I told her what I could while sitting on the floor in the bathroom. All she knows is Edward and his family were involved in things with other people since we were younger. Things that got us both in trouble, and still linger years later.

Her eyes had this tinge of anger.

She said, "Say no more."

Her father carried that same weight for years. The same weight Dad carried when I was young working for the Cullen men. Jess' father couldn't tell anyone what he had to do. That included his wife, but not his clever daughter who figured it out ... like those off numbers she thumbs through in long account lists day after day.

Her mother was none the wiser. All she knew was Jess had tutoring classes after school when really, she was learning from her father at his office all the shortcuts and tricks on how to embezzle money for coworkers in on the game. In case something went wrong, or he'd go missing, she would launder the right about of cash to save her and her mother. As time went by, she grew to be just as talented as her father.

Father and daughter had a new, unbreakable bond because of their secret.

Luckily, she never had to ring the alarm and cover his tracks. The family moved away and started a new life, one of the fortunate ones who did the right thing. She was too attached to her grandmother to detach herself from this town completely. Like me, she had come back, but not with all the baggage.

. .  
. .

After I fled from my house, I jumped around hotel rooms for a couple of weeks. A coworker lent me his spare room for a few more. He thought my furnace was out. We'd drive to work and park in the garage undetected. Jess did her homework, knew who to involve and how without their knowing.

Eventually, Jess' apartment was warm and open, as she insisted. It's small, but in town, closer to work. We wake; me from the couch, and dance around one another, comfortably in each other's presence. I make coffee for both; she makes dinner since it's what she's best at. We work well together.

But watching her from my desk as she flirts with the company president she's secretly involved with, tells me soon I will be the third wheel. Soon, I'll be overstaying.

I'm a burden.

I shake in my bones just thinking of going back to that house.

I leave her behind to get lunch across the street. I'm starving. I can't wait for her the way I have all week. She's a late-in-the-day eater. I'm an on-the-clock, eat two lunches during the day kind of gal. She fetched lunch for me for nearly a month. Today, I cannot accept more charity. I stand on my two feet.

The market is small but has a great salad bar and snacks hanging on racks. It's busy. All kinds of people sail in here to get fresh fruit instead of fast food.

I'm shaking off a plastic bag to dump the salad bowl in and the rest with the speed of anxiety—the internal silent kind that crawls in when you find yourself alone.

A fairly old woman drags her oversized purse by me, blocking the way out of the buffet area. I nudge her purposely after pardoning myself twice and being ignored. I'd like to yell at her. Who have I become? This impolite, scared, coward wanting to push everything out of my way to run and hide.

She glances my way, but only moves a step.

I nudge again. "Excuse me," I say louder this time.

The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand at attention.

When she looks up this time, her gaze sticks, but not on me. Her eyes widen, and she quickly waddles away, taking a rack with her. She makes a ruckus. The entire cluster of people lingering by look up. Then, their eyes stick, too.

This is the feeling I was gravely hoping to avoid.

My shoulders tense and so does my back. I feel that warmth close behind me, then his fingers nudge my spine to move. I don't look behind me. I head straight for the cashier and pay for my lunch, or attempt to. His large hand juts out awkwardly, some bills in a wad from his fist are dropped on the counter. It's not even enough. The cashier just nods and rings it in wordlessly.

One more nudge to my spine, and we're outside.

I want to scream for help, drop everything and run, but the stares of others begin to change. As he's jittery, shuffling around me, it just makes this seem like he's the luckiest, poor man alive, and I'm giving him the time of day. Some folks pass by and smile like I'm the kindest, most giving person.

I'm not.

I'd like to watch the life leave his eyes as I stand over him.

"Touch me again, I'll rip your arm right out of its socket," I say through my teeth. He merely gets closer, not farther away.

"When are you coming home?" Edward asks beside me. "Sit," he says gesturing with a nod toward a bench. More like an order.

I give him a side glance. I have no choice, I sit under the shade as he paces a few feet away. The coast is clear. No eyes are on us, but his are on me. He takes me in, from heels, to legs to my deadly stare.

"What? You've sent someone to find me?"

He focuses on my chest but doesn't answer. I pull on my jacket until whatever he's fixed on is moderately out of view. He blinks. My dread in all my effort to hide all month has fallen flat. I just get angry.

"What the hell do you want? You're stalking me now, is that it? No peace?" I ask.

"You look beautiful today."

He disarms me, and it prickles behind my eyelids. I huff out a sigh.

"I didn't ask for this. Maybe I was … silly, stupid, a child, but I never asked for the rest," I rush to say.

He pauses in front of me. His robe moves with the breeze, so does his greasy hair. Everything disorderly but his clear eyes, just like that Sunday, in my room, before he pulled on the hem of my night dress. With me, he's always been sober, clear-headed. No mistake in his intentions.

"You're remembering." He frowns as he examines my posture. "I'm guessing things I'll be paying for for a while?" He shrugs. "I apologize, whatever it was."

I cross my arms over my chest, cross my legs, and stare out at the desolate park. I feel his eyes on me.

He hums, like he figured out what I've remembered. He pictures us too; young, limber, and stupidly in love.

"Yes, you did ask for this," he says the contrary. "Those eyes of yours always asked for it. I was the poor fool who fell right into you. You made me crazy … still, do."

These eyes of mine look into his. I don't respond.

"And when you were gone, body and mind," he says, stepping closer, "I was left dry. Dysfunctional. Lost. You built me up to crash right down on me, under your heel. You left." He shakes his head and points at his chest. "I didn't ask for that."

"Well, since I don't remember anything, please, enlighten me. Why _did_ I leave?" I challenge him.

He looks away, over the trees and the road close by.

"I didn't come to bother you. I just … wanted to make sure you were okay." He flexes his neck to the side and looks at anything but me.

"Bullshit," I say. "I don't matter to you, but for your stupid, shameful secret. You're here to make sure I keep it. To put a bit of terror in me, right? It's what you do."

Red crawls up his neck.

"But you know what, Edward Cullen Jr.? Neither you nor your sacred family scare me. You're so desperate and scared that you actually followed me today, risked everything, just to threaten me to keep my lips sealed? I see right through you." I point at him.

"Maybe I will keep them sealed," I say shrugging. "Maybe I won't. That's up to me, isn't it? This is my game now. You've played long enough. I should put a bit of terror in you from now on." I smile.

He meets me with that. His grin brightens his eyes.

"Baby…" he says.

"Now, you know what happened the last time you called me that." I interrupt. "Do you really want to try that again?"

"You don't remember exactly what I'm capable of, Bella," he's says through his lashes, this time he's angry.

I nod.

I pull out my lunch, stab a mouthful of salad, and feel this hunger inside. The type that washes away uncertainty and fear.

"I think you also know what _I'm_ capable of," I say around a bite. "I mean, you would remember, far more than I do. Right?"

I take my time while he uneasily stands frozen. I can't help but smile looking up at him.

Why am I running? The look of worry alone in his eyes tells me I have an iota of control. I grasp that feeling desperately, because when he turns and looks at me, it will fade away just as quickly as it rushed in.

He looks at me.

 _I must have control._

After this tense-stretched moment of us settled into silence, listening to cars pass by, birds chirping, my fucking jaw going at my lunch, I calmly finish eating. I stand. I pick up all the napkins and utensils and feel … control. I've consumed it. Best arugula salad I've ever had, I guess—maybe just my newfound nerve.

I walk away, but not before he reaches over and hooks his fist around my elbow. He pulls me. I shuffle close to his side. Anger shows in the firm tug. His lips hover by my ear. Mine form a faint grin.

"She's a good friend to you; her father was a good one to me. We wouldn't want to jeopardize our relationships, would we, Bella?"

I freeze to my bones. My grin fades now.

 _Jess_.

He leans in just enough to touch nose to neck. My eyelids flutter. "You smell nice, today, just like yesterday," he says softly as he grazes my skin. "I'll kill the next man who tries to hide you at his place."

He leaves me standing here after a kiss.

I reel.

I didn't see him yesterday. A ghost at my heels. I can't run. I can't hide. He's everywhere and nowhere.

My heart pounds uncontrollably.

That night, I quickly pack my things as Jess talks a mile a minute about work in the kitchen, unaware of how my day went. The next evening after work, I take the bus early before she leaves the office.

The house is already warm when I walk in. A small set up sits by the stove for hot cocoa. Sinatra plays in the living room where the fireplace crackles. Even my bed is dressed down with my nightgown spread out over the sheets.

I live with a phantom … One who welcomes me into my own home and who pulled down all the sheets I put up before I left. One who never shows his face through his dark windows, but I know he watches through my bare ones.

So I do the one thing you wish you'd catch your neighbor doing as you peek through your windows in wonder.

I skip the nightgown and the towel. I make my way around the house after a nice, long bath… in nothing but this good smug feeling.

I make that cocoa and lounge in front of that fireplace with a book I've been meaning to read for the longest. Tits bare and perked with that draft coming through the hallway. Bare-assed on my couch, feeling velvet against my skin. And I find that it's surprisingly nice. Why isn't this something I'd do more often? I wonder this as I twirl a lock of my hair around my fingers. My legs over pillows and over the armrest. The light of the flames setting a glow, dancing over my skin.

The best part is crawling into bed. Right over the nightgown and over the sheets I find elation. Euphoric release after weeks of stress and anxiety. You won't believe how hard you'd come when you finally let it all go. Dotted lights behind my eyelids. A balming pulse between my legs, slowly lulling me to sleep afterward.

No sleep has been this peaceful in weeks.

He wants a show; I'll give him a show. Just one he can't touch or get anywhere near in this house. If he does, it would all just be part of my new plan.

I found a loaded gun he keeps stashed under my bathroom sink. At that level, when I was sitting in a tub he also set up with candles, I don't think he intended for me to enjoy the view.

I sleep and grip the Glock under my pillow—because when he comes, just like he always has when we were young, I will kill him.

I'll end this for good.

…

 **Young**

I don't know what to do. Do I walk up to their house, knock and hug him tight until all his pain melts away? Who are we to one another now? We were barely something solid, no exchange of affection, intimacy or titles. It was all physical, desperate, silent love. Loud were the crashing sounds we made when we'd find each other.

I can't knock on the door and say, "Where's my boyfriend?"

I cringe. Even that sounds splittingly off.

He isn't.

He's not mine.

The local news doesn't let up. We turn it off because the sounds of insensitive, monotone speaking reporters talking about a fragile story is mind-boggling. We don't need details. Everyone saw it with their own eyes but me.

Then, the cops ran in to arrest the driver of the vehicle. The young guy, beaten bloody, was allegedly threatened to give Senior a drive around town in his car. They found the driver almost past out behind the wheel, as the car crawled to a stop on Main Street. He swore he didn't do it. He pleads not guilty. His wife with a newborn probably sits at home knowing the move here last summer was a terrible idea.

I can't mourn alongside Edward. I can't help him. But I can help Alice.

I sigh in relief. Anything to be near him.

I attempt to call her private line. No answer. I wait. Every hour, days after the death, I ring her. Still no lights flicker on in their house.

Vicki and Bree are quiet. The entire circle, really. It isn't the same. The rest of the school goes on with their loud daily banter at lunch, and we sit silently.

"This is so fucking depressing. I'm so over this already. Could we just move on? It wasn't like he was a good father anyway."

I scoff. Vicki looks over.

"What?" she says.

I shake my head. Twirl my pen in hand and continue the math problem on my notebook.

"You're rude, that's what. You're Insensitive."

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. All I'm saying is I need some serious ups right now. Fucking excruciating dealing with issues that aren't my own."

I look at Bree to gauge her reaction because this sure as shit can't be coming out of her lips. Not from someone who hangs on Alice's every word. Follows her every footstep.

Bree's polishing her nails, pretending to mind her own business.

"All the attention is off you, of course, you'd be inconvenienced, right?" I say right back. "She's your friend, have some respect."

She rolls her eyes and sucks her teeth.

"Right. Because you're _such_ a good friend, Bella. You'd do anything for her to avoid confrontation."

Bree glances at me from her lashes and gets back to her nails. I look back at Vicki.

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

She holds up her hands. "Oh, you know. I'm not the one who should be worried disrespecting _best_ friends. I'm not fucking the siblings of _best_ friends."

Blood drains from my face. I try so hard not to show a reaction but for knitted brows.

"Excuse me?"

Bree chuckles.

"Oh, you're excused from the table, hon. But your man ain't here today to chase after you and pin you to a wall," Vicki says. Her grin is faint but conniving.

I nod. I look down at my notebook, and my hands are already shaking. My heart goes from zero to sixty. I even out the tone of my voice.

"So, how many people know?" I ask nonchalantly.

They cackle at the confession.

"Bingo, you whore!" Bree bangs the table.

Vicki shakes her head. "Everyone _could_ know. Little Miss Innocent-Introvert has a little devil inside her."

 _"_ _Puns!_ " Bree interjects. They die laughing.

I look at Vicki very closely. Her smug grin cloaking a tinge of something else. She looks at me, but there's anger behind her words.

I shrug. "You're right. We fuck. Any chance we get. And you know what? I make him come so hard he boomerangs. The difference between before and now? He can't get enough. He comes right back. He doesn't have to keep trying; from the next to the next loose bitch who gets near him. Now, he just smells of me.

"Whatever happens between him and me is none of your fucking business. I don't get into your complicated, filthy sex life you share with half the guys _and_ girls in this town—yeah, I know about that, too."

Bree chokes on her Diet Coke. Vicki goes pink.

I point at her face. "You don't get to butt into my private shit with someone I've known all my life. That's right, I actually _know_ him." I glare at both of them. They're slightly wide-eyed. "Like I said, have some respect and keep your damn mouth shut."

Bree covers hers with a hand so she won't burst. Vicki's glare smolders, but she does what she's told for once.

I stare her down. She looks away.

 _Good girl._

I turn to my very late, and very sloppy homework knowing I'll definitely have to keep my eye out for 'friends' who are bitter about guys who never gave them the time of day.

Well, not this one. He's mine. And I pine for him every moment he's away.

I let that simmer all day. That thought.

 _Mine_.

I'm sitting in my room after school, and no one is home. I leave Mom a note. I don't want her to worry, because knowing I'm going to do what I'm about to do, might give her anxiety.

The path down from my house and up to the Cullen house is farther than I thought. Maybe it's the nerves bubbling inside.

I knock on the door. When there's no answer, I look through the windows. There's movement inside. I step back. I circle the porch feeling awkward for being caught looking in.

Should I stay, or go?

 _But I miss him._ I cringe. I'm pathetic. I do miss Alice, too.

The door swings open. Uncle Emmett looks out. He's kind of squinting against the afternoon light. One beat, two, his expression changes and he recognizes me. He steps back. He widens the door, exposing the darkness to light. I don't see anything for a second or two until my eyes adjust.

I haven't been in here in years, but I don't think it typically looks like this. From where I stand, the living room is in sight. Mayhem. There are empty plastic cups, disposable plates, and cigar butts smoking in an ashtray lying on the coffee table. The TV is muted. Clothes sprawled in a corner. The space heading toward a large spiral staircase to the second floor is vacant, but the kitchen beyond it is scattered with dishes, food, and empty packages.

I start when he slams the door shut behind me.

"What do you want?" he asks.

I look back and notice that gun in his hand. He shifts it behind his thigh. If my knees weren't locked, I'd of buckled to the floor with the sight. I've never seen one this close, and not intended for an intruder like me.

"I, uh…" I stammer. He's tired; eyes dark, hair falling out of its slicked-back do. He looks on edge, like he'll take on anyone who walks through those doors.

A watchdog.

I understand.

"Alice," I say, straightening my spine. I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm here to see her." And I'm not leaving.

His eyes scan me from sneakers up to my jacket. He looks right into my eyes. _Yeah, you_ _remember me._ "Emmett." I nod.

The barrel points the other way. "Upstairs. And make it quick."

I head up. He watches me the entire way. I look back mid-flight. I say, "I'm sorry … for your loss."

He expels a breath and lets his guard down. He accepts with a nod and turns away.

I do get a glimpse of Edward's grandfather sitting in the living room just as I'd imagine. Robe around his shoulders. Vacant eyes staring at nothing, looking like he's at the brink of death. But then, he looks at me. I don't let it linger. I head up to the top floor hesitantly.

The silence is eerie. Death is in the air. I instantly regret this decision.

I aim for Alice's room, far down to the left. A larger house than ours will ever be. You could get lost in corridors here. I dare not look for _his_ door instead. The fear of this place grips me.

I knock. No answer. I stand in a silent hallway fighting to stay. I hear footsteps down the corridor, and my heart pounds. Fuck it. I reach for the knob, and push.

A mound under sheets is curled in her bed. The lights are out. The stale smell of loneliness and a faint touch of her perfume are in the air. I look around, and even her window shades are drawn closed. A tray of days old food sits untouched at her vanity. The only light comes from a slit of her curtain.

"Alice," I whisper. I close the door behind me. Nothing stirs. I want to run out or crawl in a corner. "Alice, it's me," I call again anxiously. I don't dare to move.

The sheets turn down. I jump. Her bloodshot eyes make a shocking view. Her breath hitches. Tears pour so quickly. She sits up and is already reaching out to me.

I rush to her bed and straight into her arms; warm, shaking, and frail under me.

She sobs.

My heart breaks. I swallow back the tears and pull away to look at her.

"Oh, Alice." My voice gives way. I smooth back her disheveled hair. Sweat is beaded around her forehead, tears build at her trembling chin. I wipe them away. Her breath staggers. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.

But she begins to shake her head. Her eyes grow alarmed, like she just woke. She pushes me away with this desperation.

"Go. You can't be here. Leave," she whispers. She pushes and pushes.

"But … why?" I say above a whisper. She frantically presses a finger to her lips with a hush. She presses it to mine. She pushes me off the bed. I fall to my knees.

"What is it?" I say with a whimper.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed. An oversized t-shirt hangs loosely around her shoulder, the hem to her knees. A sweater is heavy over that, looking faded and unwoven in places. She's been like this for days, it seems.

She stands and wrings her hands. She turns in circles. I watch her looking lost and delusional.

"Alice?" My chin trembles as I give in to this sadness. She looks like she's lost her mind. I reach out for her. She pulls away.

She's shaking her head and looking around like she's lost something.

"What is it? I'll help you look," I offer.

She looks under the bed. Then over. She spreads her arms wide under her blanket and pats her bed down. When she finds it, she's panting and sits back on her heels beside me. Whatever it is, she's fumbling with it in her hands, caught in the folds of her sleeves. She gets a hold of it with her bare hand and juts out a butterfly knife. The two ends split revealing the blade inside. She flips it and grips it in one hand while pulling me by my elbow with the other.

"You can't be here. Do you understand?" she says.

I nod. My mind runs with all the possibilities. I do understand. This means war for the Cullen family. Me being here makes it look like I'm involved.

She pulls us to the door, cracks it open to look, and closes it back up.

"I'll walk you to the stairs, and you go straight home. Don't come back." She gets lost in thought looking around. She shakes her head. Her short hair is in disarray, waves sticking to her damp cheeks as tears slip down endlessly.

I grab onto her face so she'll look at me. "What happened?"

She trembles beneath me. "So much. It's too much ..." She whimpers. She catches her breath.

"Tell me," I insist. She refuses. "I won't leave until you do," I say.

She rubs her face. The blade a mere inch from her lashes. She grips my shoulders hard and looks at me.

"They almost killed Edward. They cornered them. Pete is hurt badly. Sam is dead. Then dad went after them alone and … It's all a mess."

My stomach plummets.

I didn't know about Sam. He's not in our school, he's older, but I've seen him around the court behind Edward's every footstep.

"Who? Who cornered them? What happened to Edward?"

She holds back and bites down on her lip to keep the hysteria in. She pleads for me to leave and pulls me.

"Come. Now." She beckons opening the door.

"Alice..." I plead. I almost tell her, shake her and yell it right here that she has to tell me if Edward is okay because it matters. But she shakes her head frantically. Her focus blurred and hazy.

She disappears into the hallway. I follow.

She looks around the bend of a wall and flails her arm, beckoning me to come quick. The blade in her hand is ready to cut the air.

I wonder who she would be protecting herself from in her own house.

She hugs me tight at the top of the stairs.

"Go now. Don't worry about me." She pushes my shoulder.

"Where's Edward?" I ask.

We look up. A moan came from a room close by. A sorrowful wail follows. A woman cries out in anguish.

Alice's shoulders drop slightly. She palms her forehead and closes her eyes. She looks stretched thin. Her face blotchy, eyes tired, and skin pale. She shuffles her feet anxiously, debating whether to push me out or run to her mother.

She decides to wave me off. "Please. Just go!"

She quickly sets off the other way toward the noise. I watch as she pushes through double doors to her parent's room. The dim light of day barely casting over a lost and broken woman on her bed. Alice kneels by her. Her sweater billowing behind her, melding with the bedsheets poured over and onto the floor. The doors slowly close shut.

I hold my breath. This is my chance. With my heart beating out of my chest, I look around. I have to find Edward. I will not leave here until I do.

I traverse to the third floor on a narrow staircase.

The attic.

I know his room. After his mother's sewing room, another bathroom to the right, his door is at the end. Darkness envelops me on the last step up. An unfinished space with beams is still visible. No walls are up to cover electrical wiring and piping, just the frames and walls around his bedroom door.

I only find a large room and his empty bed in disarray. The mattress is big but half bare. The sheets rumpled and thrown whichever way and on the floor.

While Alice's room is furnished and filled with trinkets and artifacts of childhood memories, this room is bare and empty. Not a pin up on a wall, or a shelf full of cheap metal awards an adolescent would accumulate over the years. Not the same things I remember him having around when we were kids. He must've thrown them all out, only leaving this soulless shell behind.

A record player sits on one side of a desk, where records fill crates beneath it I've never seen. It's out of view, not visible from my bedroom window. What he does have is an abundance of cases and cases of cassettes lining a shelf above. Some books with them, some old cables twisted around an old _Atari_ we all played with when we were kids. A radio with two cassette slots looks dated by his bed. I've seen that.

What I haven't seen is a couch facing this empty desk used to hold a TV. I see myself roaming around in its gray reflection. The rest of the room is yards of open space, faded wooden floors, leak-stained walls, and powdered blue, chipped paint his mother once chose for her son. Beaming sunlight brightens dust as it dances in its warmth. Dust coats everything he never touches.

No curtains. No life to this lived in room. No clothes thrown and forgotten by his bed in piles. Nothing but a pair of jeans hanging by the belt around the handle of his chest of drawer. Some T-shirts peek through seams of drawers. His worn sneakers are sprawled by the door.

A dartboard merely hangs by a string behind his closet door, but the darts seem to have surpassed the felt. Dots pierce the walls. The colony of piercings is dense, creating larger craters where the paint chipped off with years of play. The dots fan out to randomness.

Then, I look up.

The high ceiling is full of the culprit darts still stuck to the dried textured plaster. I kind of gasp. They're probably hundreds up there. They look like dragonflies, like WWII fighting jets in green, red, and black stripes with white letters hand painted on the wings. He took the time, or had plenty of it.

I'm betting any girl he brought in here would point and ask but never got a response. I'm betting this is his rage. The rage he keeps inside, lets it out through every flick of his wrist bit by bit, and definitely lets it out on people he hurts.

I wouldn't have to point and ask. I know.

I pick up his pillow, barely there, flat and worn with the weight of his dark dreams. But I bring it to my nose and lips. The smell of him.

Then, I notice red. I tilt my head to see blood stains on the mattress. Gauze is left behind in a long piece. The red, dark crimson, dried but new.

He slept here, he bled here. Never letting himself known through the view from my window.

I look out at that. My cheeks heat up, knowing, seeing how much he … _can_ see through my windows. I'm the distraction, hence the empty room.

I hear voices far away, faint. Muffled, like they're coming through walls. I wonder what is under this room. I think and think. I hurry down the steps as quietly as I can. One look and I know no one is around.

I roam the floor until I figure it would be the library. Its door is slightly ajar. I walk up to the slit and peek through. No one is inside. I check behind me, the hallway is clear. I walk further in.

A room. The shelves all frame a heavy door tucked under high shelves of books. The door is closed, but shadows float beneath the seam, ghosting over the floors. I hear nothing. Not a pin drop.

My heart feels like it'll burst.

"Edward?" I call, barely above a whisper. I freeze. I look behind me, I look before me. My ears swish and swish with the sound of my heartbeat.

The shadows subtly move again around my feet.

I reach out and feel the door. I listen. The lock gives way. The knob barely turned. I pull my hand back. I make a fist.

When nothing moves, I reach out again, ready to push.

The door swings open.

Seven sets of eyes stare right back. I gasp. My hand finds my mouth so I won't scream.

Men in suits, some wearing long coats with cigars in hand, stand around. They glare. Slowly, their muscles seem to coil, their brows furrow and some straighten where they sit or stand to get a good look at the intruder.

No one speaks.

It feels like an eternity as I stand here, my eyes adjust to the brightest room I've encountered in this house. I try to make out what I've walked into.

It's a circle. Like a chain, linked, they surround the precious gem in the center. That gem is very unpolished, damaged and stone cold.

I begin to stammer an apology for barging in, but no words come out. Everyone is surrounding Edward who looks up from where he sits at the center. The old wooden office chair beneath him swivels, squealing at its hinges. He sits there in white boxers and a T-shirt sagging at his neckline. Blood stains his shoulder in patches. Underneath, gauze takes up his shoulder and neck.

My lips part.

I let go of this gripping fear that shot through my body. I instantly replace it with this shock following right behind it. The sight. Him. Bruised and beaten in places.

The eye that isn't sunk into a blood-red socket flickers up to me. The angry thin line his mouth was set in goes slack. His lip is freshly split. His toned arms relaxed over the armrests. His long, bare leg and foot jut out, lying on the opposite side of his arch. His other toes steeple the stem and wheel of the chair one uses to roll around under a desk. Only now, it's used as an interrogation chair. A throne. A seat that will run electrical shocks through his limbs until his heart gives out.

I don't know.

I don't know anything.

Not about this numbing moment, or about what transpires in a war room after a mob boss is murdered.

All I know is I've barged in. I've interrupted a meeting of secrets, of hush tones in conversation. Furious tempers. Minds coming together to plan intricate, genius ways to kill.

Revenge.

I cower. I step back and turn a shoulder to run out. Yet, I can't tear my eyes away from the stone cold stare I keep dear to my warm heart.

Red travels up my neck. I'm instantly embarrassed. Edward doesn't react. No flicker of longing, care, or even recognition spark his eyes when he looks at me.

I travel up to other familiar stares; Uncle Jasper, Carlisle is behind the desk in the back on a large chair, and the few nameless men I've seen around their yard hovering around them are standing around, too. The rest are strangers with wicked eyes.

The man closest to the door is different. His posture frumpy. His clothes dated and ratty. Dark hair, mounds of it, fan around his ears and in them. Facial hair connects between his eyes. His sly grin carries an unrefined air, the kind you see passing by on the street after the sounds of slurs and catcalls. He smiles, and a gold tooth comes into view. He shifts to get a better look, and his gold rings brush against the knob he pulled on … to reveal me.

"Well, well. Who's this little lady?" he asks. I take a step back when he takes one forward.

I cut my eyes to Edward. He's stoic.

I drop my gaze and say, "Alice. I was just…" I point a thumb over my shoulder.

"Wrong room, gorgeous," sly says.

"Yup."

I make to leave, but he catches my arm. "Say, aren't you Charlie's kid?"

I look at my arm, I look at him. My heart gets going again—no, it hasn't stopped pounding.

This time, when I look back at Edward, he isn't looking at me, but the hand gripping my arm.

Jasper chuckles low from across the room. "You always do this, Joe."

"Come on in, gorgeous," Joe says. His voice rough, his breathing wheezy when he laughs. "There's always room for a pretty lady. Don't you think?" he asks the watchers. He steps aside. "Join us."

I'm the color of red ripe tomatoes. Fire licking at my neck, up my ears. I pull back my arm, but he won't let go.

"I…" I shake my head and try a grin. "No. I'll just … I'll go find Alice. Apologies for interrupting, gentlemen." I try to seem cool and calm. I shrug nonchalantly and point behind me. The facade I conjured up and mastered along the years around male mechanics when I visit Dad's shop or alone … with a group of dangerous men who see the reflections of my mother's looks in me.

He tugs. I pull the opposite way. Then, I'm struggling. My feet begin to slide, I'm fighting against this.

I panic. This guy's expression turns serious.

"Charlie sent you?" he asks. "Who did?"

My stomach drops at the mention of Dad. "No." I look him square in his malicious eyes. I'm taking deep breaths, but I'm trying not to look hysterical. "Your hand, Sir."

"Joe," Jasper says with a sigh.

"What do ya say, fellas? Ask her a few questions? Have a seat, gorgeous."

"You heard her. Let her go."

I look past this dirtbag.

Edward spoke. I look at him.

Joe looks back. He looks at Edward, then at Carlisle behind him. Carlisle makes no moves.

Joe chuckles humorlessly. "Mind your own, kid. Grown up stuff."

"Edward tilts his head just so. He stares daggers, like darts, at his head. Chipped paint, colonies of dots. He's an expert. Years of practice.

His aim now is Joe.

The moment I shift my gaze to this insidious man, I hear the squeak of hinges again. That chair. The one at the center.

I get a good look over Joe's shoulder, and when I do, I forget about lodging my foot between his legs.

Joe sees me stop. Joe looks back. The sharp letter opener from the desk is in Edward's fist.

Joe's neck splits.

His hand goes limp. I stagger. I lose my footing and fall back into the library

I watch Edward step over him and lean over his jolting body. The knife is blood red, his fist coated. Time and again, his arm comes up and jabs right back down again into his neck. I don't count. I see this until the door slowly crawls shut and he and a stunned Jasper behind him are out of view.

I hear it; the knife hitting the floor, Edward taking his squeaky, wooden throne, and then this, "I'll kill the next man who tries to defy me and my father's wishes again."

I run out.

I don't wait to find out what happens next.

...


	6. Chapter 6 - Mother

**A/N: Happy Valentine's Day ... or wtvs. pfft (the sound single people make). Happy Chocolates Day? No. Happy day-after-Valentine's-day-candy-sales Day. Yes. Happy Galentine's Day. Perfect.  
**

 **Like this fic? (You wouldn't be here if not, I guess), go vote for it in TwiFic Fandom Awards! (and for More than Anyone if you fancied that one). Thanks for your noms if you did. *black heart emoji***

 **Thanks for your prayers. As we speak, Mom is out of OR. Still intubated, but I know she'll be fine.**

 **I hope this post finds you all well, too. It's been a tough year already.*eye roll emoji*  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 6 - Mother**

 **Young (entire chap)  
**

I'm shocked. I'm shaken. I'm… what am I? I dissolve into new tears.

I wipe at my cheeks, wring the wetness off my trembling hands, and try to take gulps of air. I don't stare out my window, just in case. I'm stuck to the floor against my door where my legs gave in.

I surpassed Emmett and ran out the door. When I arrived home, I managed to elude both Mom and Dad as I ran in and up to my room. Mom was in the pantry, Dad somewhere in the basement.

"Fuck … fuck, _fuck_." I cry. I pull at my hair at the crown of my head. Life goes on normally in this house, and a man was stabbed to death in another. I saw it happen. I saw it. "God …"

I crawl to the window and sit there between my bed and the baseboard. I hear a car door. I peek out.

A moving truck is pulling up the Cullen lot, a driver gets out, and two men in work boots walk up to the porch with a cargo cart in tow. They walk out of view. The driver waits around, a cigarette lit between his fingers in no time.

Then, after what seems to be hours, they're back. The cargo is loaded. The men quickly drag it along but with little effort. The truck bed opens, and in goes the cardboard box.

Carlisle walks out and into a black car. Four men flank him. Jasper lingers in the yard, but I can't see who he's talking to. The truck drives off, and the rest of the men in trench coats slowly make their way into other vehicles parked by the sidewalk.

Jasper shuffles around where he stands, and he reaches out, holding someone back. His arm is pushed away. He watches Edward cross the yard. Still in his boxers, t-shirt, and barefoot, he jumps the fence by the front of our house.

My stomach ties in knots.

I'm frozen where I sit on my heels.

I stare at the bedroom door. I stare at the knob.

It'll turn, I know it. A storm will barge in, and this is the end of me.

The room seems to swell with tension from the anticipation. I wait for a raging and furious Mom to walk in. She'll kill me for keeping friends with … killers. Or worse. Dad will show up speechless, disappointment in his eyes, ready to disown me. They'll kill _him_.

I could throw up.

I try to breathe, but it's choppy. And right when I'm folding over the floor to do just that, the door opens.

I can't imagine how Edward could make it through the front door, up the stairs, and stand at my bedroom door undetected.

But then, I couldn't have imagined anything worse than what I saw just hours ago.

Everything has changed.

I shiver at the sight of him. He hasn't walked in, only standing at the arch that could never overshadow his considerable height. His presence.

I watch him, he watches me, and this breathless silence chokes me.

There's a thing about presence. Put any other being in his place—Dad, Mom, Alice, Ben—they'd fall short. They could never take up the room he does. I realize, this is what his father saw. He carved him this way. Every push and shove, every reject, restraint, and reprimand behind his father's index finger, jabbing into his shoulder, created a dent, a crevice. Chipped paint just like Edward's walls. They all aimed to carve this—a man; not a child anymore.

My eyes flicker to his hand at his side. The smear of blood still there. His palm stained, nail beds red at their edges.

He follows my line of sight. He lifts his palm to see what I see. He blinks down at it.

He leaves the door wide open when he turns. The bathroom is right across the hall from my bedroom. I can see when he pushes through that door, stands before the sink, and opens the hot, scorching water. Slowly, taking his time, he washes his hands. The white soup turns pink. Steam billows toward his blank profile.

Over and over he folds a palm over his other hand and washes death away.

When he's done, he's … thorough. The white towel I used this morning to dry my cheeks take care of the wet sink and even the few droplets on the tiles that dripped below. He splays it over a rack to dry.

But never once does he look up at himself in the mirror.

I can't help it. My mind fathoms the impossible, such a sight set in ten years. Imagination creates a matrimonial visual; My husband doing such in our bathroom. Me in bed watching him shave in the morning in his boxers.

Will he always be a killer?

I thought we would be forever.

I don't know so much anymore. Watching him come back and softly click the bedroom door shut behind him breaks my heart. What could've been.

He stares at the floor. He sniffs. He crosses his arms over his chest. He does all of this after attempting to get closer. He couldn't. He made a circle. He stepped away and just stood there, feeling the audacity, the unwelcome.

He settles on sitting by the door and leaning his back against it.

I swallow a heaviness.

"What … the fuck?" I take a staggered breath.

He looks up at me, takes me in; the blotchiness and puffiness. He doesn't respond.

I shake my head. I wipe a tear away angrily, and with complete brokenness, I murmur, "This isn't going to work."

He doesn't react. Anger strikes me.

"You hear me? It won't work. Leave."

He doesn't move. I take a breath.

"Look, I won't tell anyone if that's what you're worried about. I … couldn't anyway."

His eyes flicker away. He stares at his hands that pair and meet in steeples by his bent knees.

I sigh.

"I mean, what the fuck will my family think if…? Mom would kill _me_. Dad would probably send me to another country. People will know. They'll think … that poor, stupid girl chose him as her boyfriend."

He breaks into a faint grin. "Boyfriend?" He looks up through his lashes.

I sigh. A new set of tears pour out.

"Fuck you," I say. I dissolve into this sadness.

I rub at my forehead, close my eyes and feel defeated. Of course, that would be a ridiculous concept. Who was I kidding? This is how it's always been with him.

He makes to move from where he sits.

"Don't you dare come any closer." I glare.

He slowly settles back in place with a long, chastised face. He reaches up to his shoulder with a wince. I notice.

"Since you won't leave, you'll tell me what happened. The least you could do."

He looks at me, and I challenge him, not looking away. He can be a presence elsewhere. Here, he'll have to be pliable and honest.

He focuses on his hands and I know I've won this small battle.

"Do you really want to get into this? Once I do …" he says shaking his head.

"What? You'd have to kill me?" I roll my eyes. "Spare me the bullshit intimidation. It won't work."

His jaw goes sharp. He adjusts his expression. He motions with a no-bullshit lift of his chin.

He speaks.

"We're a unit. It's a lot of us. We break into corporates. Daytime, when the areas are running and busy. Some owe us. The McCarthy's have been involved. They wanted in on a larger cut, took it upon themselves. Then, it got out of hand. You get me?"

I blink. I know the McCarthys. They're a large family. So many of them it's vague who's related. Cousins in the same grade, businesses all over town, grandmas and grandpas living in the same neighborhoods for generations.

My head shakes. "Why break in?"

He gives me a look.

"Fine. How many are you?"

He doesn't answer. I push.

"A few people I know?"

He tilts his head.

"Hundreds?" I say more hesitantly.

He rubs his lips. I watch transfixed.

"It's a hard job to orchestrate. I have a lot of … friends," he says. I stare blankly. He continues. "Most of them are really good people. Tellers. Secretaries. Security. All over the city. They just want to make a little extra."

"And you … orchestrate everything."

This is tedious for him, the questions. He takes a breath. Like nothing. He's a mastermind and a high school student and what he does is nothing. I'm … speechless.

"How do you pass your classes? When do you sleep?"

He seriously thinks on this, scratches his neck. "School is easy. And Sundays." He nods.

I roll my eyes.

"Watching you sleep is enough not to need it," he finishes. He looks like he'd crawl right over to me.

Buttering me up. I ignore it.

"Why didn't Senior ever trust you then?"

He looks at me confused.

"I mean, he was hard on you. I … heard once. You guys were really fucking loud."

He nods, lost in thought, staring out the windows. He makes no moves to answer. His father was his personal nightmare. But in that flicker in his eye, I know … I know he always sought his father's approval. I don't know if he ever gained it.

"But he went after you. He cared," I dare say. He cuts his eyes to me. A look to kill. He didn't seem to like that. I bite my tongue but brave it through anyway. I want to know. "Were you there when he died?" I ask.

He says nothing.

I change the subject.

"You didn't have to kill him. I was fine back there." I say. I imagine the blood draining down the sink in whirls. The pool of it staining the wooden floors of the library.

"Joe had it coming. For years," he says suddenly. "Senior was tough inside, but deep down there was loyalty.

"We'd point, Joe planned the kill. Clean and quick. So, think, Bella; what would he have done once he figured out your last name?"

My stomach churns. I squeeze my eyes shut and try my hardest to erase the answer to that question storming in my mind.

"I'd kill him … I swear I'd kill anyone who tries to hurt them," I seethe, my heart hammering.

Edward shakes his head, his eyes darkening. "You won't have to," he assures. The certainty clear and deliberate. He already has. For me.

I crawl up to bury my face in my unmade bed. I grip the sheets and cover my face, knuckles white.

"This is all my fault." My voice breaks. I wallow in this overwhelming feeling. Maybe a little embarrassed still.

 _God ..._

I stay like this for a while. Then, there's a feather touch, so faint on my arm, my skin prickles. I feel it crawling down my chest to my limbs. I look from over my knuckles.

Edward's hand disappears over the edge of the bed as he pulls away. He crawled over. His head peeking above the mattress like a bodiless monster crawling out from under my bed. My nightmare.

"Not entirely," he admits.

I huff and roll my eyes. Yes, I barged in, and there was a consequence. He had to bear a bloody hand because of it.

"I hated the way you looked at me," I admit about his coldness in the library. I can't help it. I don't have a filter when I'm like this.

"You weren't supposed to be there," he says flatly.

"You gave me no choice," I say right back with fire.

He watches me.

"Neither did you," he murmurs.

He gestures said hand—permission to approach the bed. "Can I get some?" he says about the blanket laid around me.

I shake my head a little. A line of wet drips from the corner of my eyelids.

"I've been cold. You've looked warm," he whispers. Like he's looked through my window. But he's stayed away.

Still, my limbs warm as if he commands them.

Heat flows.

Eyes flutter.

His hand glides over the bed. He lets it crawl deeper under the blanket. I feel it.

My breathing picks up. I let my eyes close, and my legs go slack.

Then I don't see him. I feel him.

Give him an inch, he'll go under, along with his hand, elbow, and torso. And even my fly pops and these jeans roll off my legs. He takes it all. His breath against my hip bones. Mine filling up my chest.

I'm jostled. My back rolls onto the mattress, my eyes the back of my sockets. I let these jelly legs fall open. And soon enough these bed sheets are twisting under my hands with each stroke of his tongue, sucking the last bit of doubt I have in my body about ever keeping him at arm's length.

What _would_ my family think?

A killer, a thief, _and_ a criminal licks me dry, and I let him.

I curl my fingers around his hair and writhe until I feel I'll come undone. I let him crawl up, but not with his boxers on. I toe them off, and we're so desperate. This anger in me, ripping at his shirt. He winces. His teeth biting down around his pain, I grind my teeth around mine and dig my nails into him. He grunts and sucks in a breath, but pushes every inch of himself inside me.

I cry out, but his mouth is there to smother it; bloody and dry where his lip split. He kisses me hard, and I taste it. He squeezes every part of me. He leans back and watches us move in and out.

And right when I hear Mom call up the stairs, he pulls back and slams into me.

Panic and pleasure grip me like I do my teeth around my fist. I push at him frantically.

Her steps coming up the stairs.

Again, she calls.

My heart pounds against my chest and Edward looks down at me with lazy eyelids.

I grab his face. I shake him. His eyes drift closed as he moves.

I slap him so hard he sucks in air like he's found consciousness. He turns an ear over his shoulder. I'm digging fists against his chest to move, to hide, to jump out the fucking window.

"Edward," I whisper furiously. He looks up delirious. What he does is he kisses me.

He tugs on my legs. He wraps his arms tightly around me. I open my eyes, and we're in darkness. My closet door barely hooks onto the lock he pulls behind him. He has me pressed against the wall. My clothes in hangers, some falling as he moves, still, through his hurried frenzy. I grab anything and ball it around his mouth and mine.

He's lost. His eyes closed, and mine are wide and alert.

Because right through the slit the door makes I watch as my mother steps into my room. She turns her head left, then she turns her head right.

"Bella," she calls.

Edward thrusts and I smother my cries around his shoulder.

Mom turns, yells out to the hallway. "Charlie, did you see her leave Alice's house yet?" I faintly hear him respond.

I grip the doorjamb inside and squeeze my eyes shut against his relentlessness.

She casually steps out and looks back in—mother's instincts. My mirror takes her full frame. Her eyes seem to lock to mine, but she looks away. In silent screams, I die inside.

I turn my face into his neck and feel him grow frantic.

Then he's crying.

His shoulders begin to heave, and he crushes me to him. I run my fingers through his hair and try to look at him. He's inconsolable, yet breathlessly silent.

Slowly we slide down to the floor. His knees give in, and so do I. I listen to him and tears pour down my cheeks along with his; for the scare and for this sudden sorrow. I dissolve in the mix of the two and hold him—all while he finally lets go of the one person who grips his heart so tightly—his father.

The answer is he did watch him die.

. .

. .

I feel faint. I think I will faint.

The priest says, "Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust … " And I know I'll be that when I get home.

Edward curls his arm around my waist more tightly. His fingers are woven through my fingers where they meet at my middle. I get a free hand to press it to my mouth in complete and utter mortification.

I scan over the color of mourning, everyone making a semi-circle, surrounding the casket; shiny piano black reflecting the son of the man inside. His pale face a blurred dot in blobs of black.

I haven't looked up from where I stand, where I ended up, to even remotely find Mom's eyes among the mournful. I can feel the heat of her stare, her despair, her silent fury. But I can't help it, I scan the crowd who have come to the burial site to watch this intricate box go down a hole, and I find her eyes.

Yup. I will die today.

Save the trip.

Bury me while we're still here. I'll jump into the hole and let them shovel in the dirt right over me.

She will kill me. Dad is a tinge of pink. _He_ has already disowned me.

We arrived. We were the last ones to park. Dad drove. Me in the back. Mom was silent in the passenger's seat but softly caressed Dad's hand where he rested it between them.

We got in line, the one where everyone pays their respects to the immediate family one by one. I got to Alice first. She hugged me so tightly, so I let it linger. People stepped around me. I smoothed back the hair around her pale face and told her I loved her. Her mother was already a corpse. I only got to step in for a quick hug she didn't react to.

The priest walked up and took his place as everyone had assumed theirs. I didn't notice I was the last one. I grew disoriented for a moment trying to find Mom and Dad and mortified for being in the damned middle of the circle.

But that familiar hand that makes me tremble caught mine. Instantly I knew it was him. I looked to see Edward in a black coat a few heads away from his mother. The large collar pulled up and folded every which way around his jaw. My heels toe to toe with his dress shoes. His slacks looking like the newest pair he's ever worn. Combed back hair, clean shaven, lips looking purple-red like they always do in the cold.

He pulled me over. My heart sped up, but I couldn't keep my eyes away. He looked so very much like his father. It made me nervous.

He took me in his arms. His face tucking into my neck. And just when I thought the gesture still seemed innocent enough for watchful eyes who birthed me, he pulled away and kissed me. Right on the lips. One long, soft kiss.

The cold could not stand against that. Like beads down a candle dripping over, I melted. I looked into his saddened eyes, framed his face and went in for a second.

His brows furrowed over the top of his eyes, which he kept closed long after I let go. He sighed, like a little bit of calm took over.

That's how I ended up standing here.

As soon as I shook off my stupor, my heart sank to the soles of my feet.

Mom. Dad. Everyone. They were all watching.

Now their focus is elsewhere, but not Mom's, and definitely not Alice's. I glance her way, and she's wrapped her arm around her mother's, but she's watching me.

Her mother sobs loudly. Alice, never taking her eyes away from me, stands there and keeps her on her feet. I look away. Just in time to feel Edward's head dip closer.

My eyes prickle. His probably are too, but for the obvious reasons. He never goes to her. Never stands by his mother or Alice to help them. Not when he's flanked by his uncles, all heights of other men surrounding him. I'm his only connection to tenderness, emotion, and normalcy.

The priest signs a cross over his chest, everyone also does. Edward follows after and kisses his thumb around his fist. I blink at that.

It's suddenly all over. Alone, he steps toward the casket and tosses down a rose over his father, never breaking away from my hand. When he's done, Alice does the same. Her mother does not, she just stares.

People mill about after tossing theirs in and approach Edward before slowly making their way back to their cars. His grandfather is rolled close by. He looks up at Edward and Edward says, "This is my girlfriend I told you about." He gestures toward me.

I do this double take his way. I stare up at him. My lips part.

The old man smiles kindly.

"Beautiful young lady." He looks back at Edward. "It's nice to see who we'll be tucking under the family wing. I'm pleased, grandson." Edward grins and squeezes the hand he shakes.

This is it. It's set. It's written in the stars, stone, and my heart. Everyone knows now, even Alice. She hears as she passes by and looks at me. I make my way toward her, but she keeps going, taking her mother with her.

My heart breaks.

I anxiously wait until others approach Edward. And when I don't think things could get any worse, Mom and Dad appear in front of us two.

"Son, my condolences," he says, his hand finding his shoulder. "You know where to find me if you need anything."

Mom doesn't say a word, but her eyes are on me.

I shake in my bones, barely able to look up at her. Dad glances my way but gestures awkwardly.

"Let's go, Bella. Let's leave the family alone."

 _Yes, Sir. Anything you say._

I go to move, but Edward's grip tightens. "Mr. Swan. If you don't mind … I'd very much like to invite her to ride with me."

Dad is frozen for a second. So am I. I cringe and grin sheepishly, pushing back my hair.

"I'll escort her myself back to your house," he adds. I bite my lip hard.

Dad clears his throat and nods curtly. "Of course."

I choose to die here, right now. I can barely breathe already.

I watch them leave. And as they go further and further, I suddenly feel this relief rush over. I don't have to pretend anymore. My difficult circumstance was solved on this very day.

We ride in a black limousine … alone. I waited for the crowd to squeeze in but he helped me in and slid in beside me. The door closed and we went off, leaving his uncles behind. Alice and their mother out of sight.

He's silent. His hand still in mine but he looks out at the city under a foggy day. The ride takes us around to his father's favorite places. The ride long and warm.

I take a breath. The silence drowning me.

"Girlfriend," I say with a humph.

"I never said I didn't like it."

"Sounds loaded," I say about the title. About ... all of this.

He turns his head. "It is. I warned you." He picks up two glasses from a small bar and pours whiskey into them. I take the one he offers and stare down at the caramel liquid.

"Okay," I murmur.

He drinks his portion and looks at me. His eyes dilating. He sees the wave of truth and devotion in that simple word. I'll give anything. All of it. For him. I always have. I've waited for this moment. He knows it.

"Don't play with me," I remind him.

He swallows, the remnants coating his tongue. His eyes wandering over me.

He shakes his head. "You're exactly where I've always wanted you to be. You understand me?

I understand him.

. .

. .

I sigh. I lock the door behind me and stop to listen. Dad's car was not in the driveway when the limo pulled up. I know he's back at the shop. But where's Mom?

I walk in and make my way to the kitchen.

She's nowhere in sight. I head to the stairs, straight to my room. Maybe rush a little. But of course, I forget to check the living room.

My hair is pulled from behind, just as I reach the first step. I yelp when I hit the wall by the stairs.

She grabs my chin, and she yells, "How dare you do this to your father and me?"

"Mom." I cry. She's never gone this far. Give any Italian bred mother a bit of fire, and she will go apes hit. My grandmother was a tough woman, no bullshit. Today, I think I'll see her in Mom's eyes; wide with rage.

Her hand comes up, and she's hitting me, anywhere, and anything she can reach. I crouch and wince away. I block every blow, but it only makes her angrier.

"You just ruined your life!" she voices with every swing of her arm.

I crawl away and climb the steps. My heels fall off; my scalp is raw with the pull.

"Mom!" I yell with all my might.

She stops. She's panting. Her eyes glazed, tears dripping down her chin.

I shake my head and take a staggered breath.

She hugs me fiercely. We slump onto the steps. My arms are limp beside me, and then I hug her back. We cry over each other's shoulders.

"I love him," I whisper after a long sniffling moment.

She pulls away and holds my face.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't help it," I add through tears.

She lets go. She looks tired, beaten. She limps until she finds her bearings. Her clothes are twisted here and there. She wipes at her smeared makeup.

"Of course you are. That's what they do."

My brows furrow.

"Do you realize … what this all means?" she asks. I stare. Her fists ball up. "You don't own your life anymore, Bella. They do!"

I remember Edward's grandfather's words. _Under the family's wing._ I shake my head. "Over my dead body," I say.

"That's just it! Don't you get it?" She chuckles maniacally. "It _will_ be over your dead body!"

"Mom, no …"

"Listen to me," she says, kneeling in front of me. She grabs my hands. "You need to forget him. I'll take you to Chicago myself. You can finish school there. You can date any boy you like. I'll … buy you a car. You can make all the friends you need. Stay out late. Anything, anything you want. We'll have so much fun together in the city. New life …"

I'm already shaking my head. "It's too late. I want him. I … gave him everything."

I watch her closely. She gets it. Her eyes drift closed.

"I don't want to go," I say more sternly.

"I could strangle you right now," she whispers.

"I'm sorry."

She looks at me. This conviction darkening her eyes. "I won't let you do this to yourself. I won't."

"Why?"

She watches me. She's about ready to yell again, but she stops herself.

"Tell me. Why is it so horrible?"

"Bella, I just explained this to you. Don't you get it?"

"No, I want to know what I've been so deathly afraid of knowing all my life."

"What? What do you want me to say?" She gets loud.

I look at her for a long moment. She waits confused. "That you don't want me to go through what you did. That Jasper Cullen never meant anything to you. That all those looks and the chase I noticed when I was a kid were all in my head. That I was terrified for absolutely nothing."

She seems to have frozen over. Her lips part and it's enough to know that the color in her face drains out for reasons I've been so adamant about addressing.

I wipe at tears. "I see now that I was right," I plainly say after a silent pause.

I stand, I pick up my scattered shoes, straighten my ponytail and swipe at a welt I know she created around my neck.

I attempt to head up the stairs.

"Isabella Marie, you sit back down right now!"

Even with all the years I have on me, I still fear that tone. My muscles can't seem to move. My shoulders slump. I melt right onto the step where I stand.

"Look at me."

I don't, and she waits.

I gasp. She pulls on my ankle, and I'm sliding down the steps on my behind until she's in my face.

"Ma!"

"You're a woman now, right? You laid under a man and opened your legs."

My chin trembles. She tightens her death grip on my arms and shakes me hard.

"So let's talk. You and me. Woman to woman. About men who charm, manipulate and make you fall head over heels. Because I did. I was younger than you and this face," she says pointing at herself, "got all sorts of attention I never wanted.

"Jasper Cullen was older and wiser than a stupid girl who just felt wanted and needed. She didn't know any better. She gave him everything, too, just like you. But what she didn't know until years later, memories telling her that he took it from her. She didn't even know it."

"God …" I cry and squeeze my eyes shut.

"But she had one person in her life who set her straight. Who was bent on opening her rose-colored eyes and making her see her future—Your grandmother. I've never gotten so many beatings in my life. You know why? Because she cared. She was wise and had eyes that saw the evilness of men preying young girl's hearts.

"And it hurt," she says, her voice breaking, "It hurt like hell when I cut him out of my life, the broken one I had left. Your grandmother packed my things and moved me away from the city … where I met the most kind, thoughtful, man I thought I didn't deserve. And I gave him so much trouble to come into this heart," she says pointing at her chest. "It took years. But he was gentle and persistent.

"And guess what? I got you, and I got him. I chose the better man. I chose to be healthy, and I chose to be free."

I sniff back a silent sob.

"And yes, look at us now. We move into the one house that overlooks the Cullen's. And I have to see that man and I have to stomach it. Because fate just does things to tear you apart sometimes and your father doesn't deserve to know this house, the one he works to the bone for, was destined for heartache. I'd like to hurl my guts out every time that stranger looks my way, but it doesn't matter. I'm here for you, and I'm here for your father who's a very good man.

"So don't tell me how wrong I am. I was never wrong. I did _right_ for myself. What are you gonna do for you?"

I pull away from her hold. Wipe at my tears. Tiredly, I stand and make my way up the stairs, sore and raw.

"I don't know," is what I say. "I don't think I'm as strong as you."

I close the door to my room, but I still hear her sobbing where I left her.

. .

. .


	7. Chapter 7 - Jenks

**A/N** : **Yes, late. I just can't seem to go any faster. But, really, I had an epiphany** **at 2am while watching the babyboo niece and wrote the outline ... and character profiles. yikes. smh. Don't mind me. Here's a long one since it took to long to come. Already writing next chap; half finished.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Story on the running for fic dive of the year over at A Different Forest coming July. *hearts* Thanks, lovelies!**

* * *

 **Chapter 7 - Jenks**

 **Present**

I pull up to the parking spot. Sue waits for me inside.

It's routine now. Siren calls and traffic sounds soothe my soul. All despite what it once meant to me. At one time, this was a nightmare, now it's a haven.

It's been months.

I closed up the house; made sure the curtains were drawn and turned off all the lights and the furnace. I can still feel the door lock against the key in my palm.

I let that chapter of my life end.

Jess was heartbroken, but she was more than willing to help me make arrangements. And since I live paycheck to paycheck, I had to borrow her money.

She said, "No worries." She handed over an envelope with just enough to find my feet in Chicago. Then, when I went to go deposit the cash, I found ten thousand dollars in my savings account.

I couldn't help but laugh right there in front of the teller after staring speechless for ten solid minutes. The teller was older, and she smiled warmly.

I don't know how Jess did it, but she just saved my life. I never asked.

Dad was more than generous to offer a room in their condo. I didn't want to take any more of his help. I had the house, now I'm on my own.

Well, sort of.

Sue is a delight to be around. I visit her tailoring shop that's not what I was expecting. It's small, but it's a very profitable business. She's known for her artistry, and by word of mouth, many magazines and agencies send clients her way to tailor well-made, high quality, high fashion ensembles. She has a chic style and unique stitch work.

She learned so much from her mother and grandmother. Really, all the women in her lineage were making garments for generations leaving her to continue the tradition and keep things 'close to home' as she describes. It has made her a key player of sorts, in her genre.

She plans to expand to a boutique, an extension of her tailoring work, and more people are hired to help.

I guess that leaves me to assist in keeping the brand solid and market her name to get her more clients.

To get a sense of who she is and how she works, I come into her little vintage shop, sit in a comfortable swivel chair, and watch her do her magic.

There's not much I can do but watch. Job hunting hasn't been going so well, so Sue insisted I stay with her to construct a team around my expertise. I really liked the idea. Her website is a mess, so I bring in my laptop and work on strategy. But really, it's just a great excuse to come in and be around this creative energy—and the gorgeous people coming in and out.

Currently, she measures a dress for a tall, leggy Brazilian model to wear for an event. I mind my business, but Sue stands around thinking and thinking some more. Her assistants wait around on the ready to get the next swatch or bring the pins to measure a shorter hem here and there. She asks me what I think.

Me? I don't know. _Her breasts are infuriatingly perky in that dress?_ Like, what does she want me to say?

I say, "It's nice." She chuckles.

Either way, the model stands there naked from the waist up and thinks not a thing of it. Why should she? Not a bone of shame in her body.

She leaves, and I help gather fabric swatches off the floor.

"Come here," Sue says. She's holding a swatch of silk fabric in basic black, and another piece in tulle in front of the mirror. "I can't have you going to Fashion Week without some great pieces."

I do a double take. "Who says I'm going to Fashion Week?"

She tilts her head back and laughs. "Me, of course! How else will you see for yourself how we've expanded?"

The assistant at the front desk scoffs. I haven't mentioned the tricky part of this pleasant job I've found myself in. With fashion and tailoring comes competitiveness. This chick in my business, or Sue's for that matter, is a sneering bitch who doesn't quit. The day I came in, she looked at me from head to toe and walked away. The heels she wears are enough to make you want to gnaw off her ankles and let her stomp around in bloody stumps just so she'll keep quiet.

I ignore her for the most part. But when interaction is forced, I emit my most obnoxious voice and give her sarcastic responses to anything she's bragging about. She stopped talking to me the first week.

But that scoff just now? She's dying to go to Fashion Week. It's her goal to be invited every year. This year, she's a runner-up.

The next client comes in, and Ms. Heels perks up because it's a man. She runs to his side, grabs his coat and offers him everything shy of a blowjob.

I cross my legs in a comfortable tuck and watch the show. Sue is already pinning the silk and tulle to a model, and it's already a fucking gorgeous dress.

But my mind wanders again like it has since I escaped to the city, remembering Dad's red eyes when I brought it up.

I'm still angry.

. .

. .

We have tea. The steam drifts to my nostrils, and I can breathe a little better.

It's so quiet, and Dad just waits. I think he knows it's coming. Just like I came in the middle of the night and knocked on his door. I think he's waited for years. Like a ticking bomb.

He opened. His eyes widened. He stepped aside to let me in with a suitcase.

The first thing he did was place the kettle on the stove. The second was ask, "Did you remember to turn off the furnace?"

I stared at him. He didn't insist when I didn't answer. What he did was reach into the cabinet and gets those tea leaves that aren't in paper pockets, the cheap kind we used to use years ago. Now he dips into dry leaves and scoops them into a small metal basket in a shape of a ball. He locks it in. It's the proper way to have exceptional tea, is what Sue said once.

All these new learnings, new environments; a new life he's adapted to. When Mom was still with us, he was not as aware of his surroundings. I think she did enough grounding for the both of them. He got to dream and do, while she stayed put … and suffered in her personal grief.

That memory came to me watching a mother and daughter arguing in a parking lot at the grocery store. The young girl insistent that she wanted to date, the mother in complete disagreement. I piled my things in my trunk, and it came slowly; Mom's tears. Her sobs echoing from down the stairs. All because of me.

The windshield was blurred from my tears. I didn't move for a good hour. The engine running, the food already warming too much in the back. I sobbed, white knuckles on my steering wheel. I mourned the moment, wanting to turn back time. I wouldn't listen. She tried so hard to help me.

My poor mother.

Dad looks up at me from across the table. He gets ready to speak, but he stops. He closes his mouth.

I dare him with a look. One word.

He doesn't dare. So I ask, "Tell me again, I … forget. How did Mom die?"

He clears his throat, thinks it through. "I've told you this. It was an accident…"

My mug flies. The ceramic shatters, leaving tea trickling down the wall, the splatters everywhere.

Dad closes his eyes.

"How. Did. Mom. Die?" I ask again.

"Bella …"

"Tell me!" I yell, leaning over the table.

He stares at his cup and his eyes glaze over. He swallows hard. His shoulders sag, and after years of this new life, I see a very different man before my eyes. He looks more like he used to. Worry in his eyes. The weight of everything on his shoulders. He takes a breath and lets it go.

Finally, he says, "They killed her, and they almost killed you. I'm sorry."

I cry.

The laments come without hesitance and this, "You lied to me."

He's shredded. His eyes saddened. "No, Bella—"

"You lied to me!"

He stands and comes around the table. I withdraw, but my back finds a wall too quickly.

"Bella, please!"

"No! I am supposed to trust you! You're all I have!"

He grips my arms. I fight him. "You still have me. I'm right here!"

"You lied to me about a big part of my life."

"I had to! You were barely alive, Bella. I didn't have you for a year. I didn't have your mother. When you woke, and you didn't remember, it was like a fresh start. I was going to take you out of that mess for good!"

I shake my head. "How dare you?"

"How dare me?" he says angrily. He steps away. "You were the child. I was the adult! I did what I had to do for my daughter! The only family I had left. After raising you right, anything you needed, you go, and you set off with that boy!"

I'm in shock.

"So, this is all my fault? Nothing about what happened was an effect of _your_ decisions, _your_ intentions? Befriending that family, borrowing from their money. To do what? Show off? Impress Mom so she wouldn't leave you?"

He raises his hand. I can't help but flinch away. His palm open, ready to slam down on me, but he stops. I straighten where I stand and lock eyes with him. I dare him to try.

He takes it out on the table. It ricochets off the kitchen wall making a dent.

His back is turned. His hands on his hips. He's shaking.

"I know now about that; Mom and Jasper Cullen. But only because I remembered. You wouldn't have warned me about the man that ruined her life," I say. "But don't worry, you were her best choice, it's what she said to me. You never had to worry or try to fix what wasn't broken. She loved you anyway."

He cries. His head hangs.

"But you had to pick that house. You couldn't let it go, move on, free her from that past. You stayed. You made us all stay. So sue me for being a child and for learning to love a boy I grew to know as family. That's what we were, right? It's what you wanted. You let them into our lives, our house, still to this day, and they do what they like. What did you expect? You set that up. You paved the way. You left us with a fucked up life and the other one dead."

He sniffs where he is. He wipes his eyes and lifts his gaze to the windows he faces.

"And you think I had a choice in all this?" he asks.

"Yes. I do." I snap.

"You make the life of a terrorized family man sound so easy." He turns and looks at me. "You don't know a damned thing. I did my best to give you the best. I had to make decisions that I'm ashamed to say, but I made them because I didn't have a choice."

I shake my head. "There's always a choice to make the people in your life safe."

He nods. He wipes his face. "You're right. That's exactly what I did. I needed to fix it. All the manipulation from that family, saving my shop from their grasp. Saving you from their grasp. I knew it the moment you woke up from that coma and your eyes told me time had turned back—all you remembered was high school, not the violent last years of it. So, I took the chance. I threatened that boy from ever seeing you again. I made that choice for you." He points at my heart.

I slap his hand away.

"What happened?"

"You come here, three in the morning. I ask you the same."

I make a face. "There are guns hidden all over the house, a crazy man living next door, what do you think happened?"

He looks worried. "Are you hurt? Who hurt you? I'll kill whoever—"

I wave a hand. "Why did you send me to live there?" I yell.

He shrugs. "You were desperate to leave the city. How was I supposed to know someone was living in their house? It had been locked for years, Bella. So have the guns in the basement at home." He shakes his head. "It was part of an agreement I couldn't avoid. They leave stuff down there, and that was it. I kept it locked, just like the house."

I pull my hair at the crown. He doesn't know they took more than the basement. I tell him about all the hidden Glocks and rifles. He lands hard on a chair in disbelief.

He looks at me. "Bella, how did you find them? What crazy man?"

I sigh. My eyes drift closed. "I could wring your neck for being so damned clueless. Even after what happened to Mom, you still let them run your life." I melt into my seat, too. Both alike; Father and daughter in utter grief.

He stares.

He waits.

I sigh exasperatedly. "Last time I was here, we go to dinner with Sue. The Cullens walk in, sit in the back. You say, _'Hey, there're the Cullens_. Fun fact, they own the place. _Hm, I wonder where Edward Jr. goes all the time?_ Where could he possibly hide for long periods at a time? What a mystery,'" I say sarcastically.

I glare.

He looks away when he gets it. He goes red.

"Small world, isn't it? It's what I thought when some killers came in the middle of the night to get him. But Charlie is a good man, he lends his house to criminals to come in and do what they like. So, he did come in. And they shot up the furniture and the windows and almost killed me!

"Edward put a gun in my hand, pushed me out the door and told me to go find you because you had answers," I say waving a hand at him. "Clearly, you don't! But I didn't go far. You know why? Funny thing about PTSD, it's interrupted when you least expect it. I remembered everything that happened to Mom and all the secrets you kept from me.

"So, imagine my fucking surprise, Dad, when I remembered I was once in love with that crazy man next door.

"I had to kill two men that night!" I bellow. It echoes all through the house. Tears blur my vision, red. I could kill him, too, that long face of his staring back. "You made me a killer." My voice breaks.

I stand and yank at my luggage aiming for the door.

"Bella, wait. Please." He cries.

I turn and swear this will be the last I see of him.

"Don't worry yourself sick. Have your life, your tea and relax. I'll fix this. I'll find who killed her and then I'll end it all for good, even if I'll die trying like Mom did. But at least she had the guts!"

I leave him reeling.

. .

. .

"Baby," Sue calls. I snap to. She gives me a sad smile. "You know, we're going to dinner tonight, you should come. He misses you."

She has no clue. None. She wasn't in the house to hear Dad, and I argue. I realized that when she called and made the arrangements for lunch, just us two. I thought I would get the Spanish Inquisition but she just excitedly wanted to help me get settled back in the city. She nonchalantly mentioned Dad from time to time.

She doesn't know the big family secret.

I wanted to laugh at the table while stabbing a fork into my quiche at our lunch.

Of course, she wouldn't know. Nothing farther than knowing there was an argument between Dad and me. She's the peacemaker. The go-between.

I give her a faint smile now. She waits for my reply about dinner. "It's all right. I have some friends to catch up with."

"Oh good! That's exciting. Please have plenty of drinks and find a cute, poor chump to take home. You need to loosen up, babe."

I roll my eyes, tapping on the laptop keys extra hard.

Claire, the heel clacking assistant, purses her lips as if something's hilarious.

"No thanks, Sue. There's enough loose estrogen out there. It's tacky and clingy. Not my style."

Her purse turns sour. I seem to wear a grin now, and I really like it. It seems so does Sue since she chuckles. The woman is not blind. She sees that the assistant is only assisting male clients.

As if the topic evokes said testosterone, the bell chimes from over the door and in walks another male needing a suit or such. Claire is already adjusting her bra. I don't care so much to watch her embarrass the existence of all womankind, so I plan for lunch.

Sue is already her joyous, talkative self when I decide I should pick up something for her on the way.

I adjust my shirt and jacket over my jeans and stand tall on heeled boots because it's not like you'd ever want to come to work looking sloppy in a place like this. I did at first; fuck-the-world-and-everyone-in-it was the intended daily outfit. I was a runaway from reality. But Sue's polished style is infectious. I grabbed my makeup bag on the way out the door every morning in an attempt to do more than the minimal. Mostly to not look dead. It's how I've felt lately anyway.

I grab my wallet, and it drops soundly to the floor just as quickly.

 _That voice_.

That deep throated chuckle.

The sound crawls up my spine and back down again. I feel faint. The world seems to tip on its axis. I hold onto my chair.

I turn to see the new customer who's just entered the shop.

The last time I saw him through my kitchen window I glared at him. The night before I held a gun under my pillow. I swore I'd kill him. I swore I'd end this for good. I showed him how my body hummed to a rhythm in nothing but my earrings to tease him, to lure him in, and then shoot.

It did work for the most part. He came. I just never had the chance to pull the trigger.

I woke that morning tucked comfortably under sheets and a quilt, sans Glock under my pillow. My hand empty, my heart ready to explode.

Oh, how I cried. Sheer rage ripped through me.

I felt him laugh at me, at the weak attempt. Plans to get away transpired that day. I gave it a shot. I've run away before, and he didn't follow for years. I hoped it would be the same, but one does forget the small details.

Sue, his personal tailor, is a bit flustered. This time, she's the one to fumble in the presence of a client. Everyone seems to gravitate toward the front of the shop.

I back away.

Assistants pour out from the back room, and I find the bend of a wall. I watch a fresh-faced, dark-haired, Edward Cullen Jr. gingerly cupping Sue's hand to kiss.

Claire's skirt almost flips over her head with the excitement when he offers her a smile.

I hide to take deep breaths.

My heart hammers.

How stupid of me. What did I expect from this escape? To locate me is to locate my father, then Sue. Piece of cake. I'm more embarrassed than horrified. A silly cat and mouse chase.

I look. His gaze bores into me from behind his dark shades; his chiseled jaw tense.

My stomach curls up again.

He's not afraid to ante up the idled game.

"New assistant?" he asks Sue. She looks over and smiles.

Fuck it all to hell. I lift my chin, square my shoulders and deal with this like a grown woman.

So, I definitely pretend I didn't hear him inquire. I search for my fucking wallet with trembling hands.

"Allow me," he says. He strides over the few steps between us, and he reaches for it before I do. I straighten, and there he is; handsome as ever and not a smear of crazy over his features.

It doesn't suit him. The hair dye. Last time, he went with lighter hair; blonde. It darkened his features. But he was far away. Now, I get lost in this up close version and see that the dark hair dye does bring out his eyes.

"Isabella Swan," Sue introduces. Claire rolls her eyes, and sashays to her desk. "She's my beautiful stepdaughter who's helping to market my brand. She's smart and very much single."

I snap my head toward her. She covers her lips with a hand.

The fucker smirks.

He takes my hand and kisses it. I hold my breath. And when I try to shake him off, he tightens his grip.

"I'd kiss those lips ..." he says for my ears only.

"That's really not your color," is my reply.

He grins.

Sue comes close just in time to miss me taking back my hand.

I walk to the door. My body hums from his touch. Damn him for this. Damn him for looking so much like the last memory I had of him; dark, cold, and gorgeous—just like his father.

"Miss Swan? I think you forget something," he calls from behind me.

I turn, my neck, still heated and red. He shows me my wallet.

I snatch it before his hands come any closer to grip at my composure.

I try to take my time getting lunch, but it's inevitable. If Sue doesn't suspect a thing, maybe she will today if I stay away. I buy her a salad and walk back to the shop.

The moment Edward sees me he smirks and winks. Sue is marking a new jacket on him. The slacks he wears still have pins at the cuffs. They hang low on his hips.

Claire watches from her desk, hand on chin, dying inside that she can't get closer than an inch. Calls come in, and she has to take them begrudgingly. She grabs her things to head out for lunch when she sees I've arrived—and notices the wink.

"Oh, good. You're back," says Sue. "Come, I need your opinion."

I take a deep, angry breath, and slam the bags on my desk. "I'm good from here," I say.

"Honey, I need a non-designers eye."

I'd like to wring her neck. But since this isn't new, her asking for opinions, I sense her sincerity. I take a few steps closer, but that's it.

Edward catches my eyes through the mirror. She turns him to face me. He opens the lapels of his jacket, and there are his perfectly sculpted abs. I've seen those, slashed him good. The scar healed well.

"Not my color?" he asks when I don't speak. I look up at his eyes, caught.

I shrug a little. "I don't think the problem is your work this time, Sue. It's purely the subject."

Sue gasps. "Bella!" she mouths.

Edward's grin widens.

Sue fidgets where she stands. And maybe my critique wasn't far off. "Let me grab another one in the back," she says. So she does, and it leaves me alone with this lunatic for the rarest of moments in a usually busy shop.

I take a step back. He advances and catches my arm before I bolt out the door.

"What the fuck do you want? Wasn't it obvious enough I want to be left alone?" I hiss.

His eyes travel up my body. His fingers weave into the hair at my nape. I struggle with him until I can't. He tugs me close and not a streak of humor shows on his face. He kisses rigid lips. His smooth-shaven face is different at the touch. I'm transported back to eighteen.

I turn my head as much as I can. His warmth at my neck. I try not to cry with the aching memories.

"You should've tried harder if you didn't want to be found," he says of my weak attempt. "I gave you time."

I roll my eyes hating myself. Then they drift closed at their own accord when I'm pressed to him like this.

"I missed you. You missed me?" He tugs on my hair to look at him. "All I remember is you touching yourself for me."

"All I remember is my mother crying, pleading for me to leave you."

His eyes hop-skip over mine. He lets go of me.

He runs a hand around his neck, looks out at the street. There are some men out there, waiting for him. Wherever he goes, they go.

"There's a … complication. It's why I came. I figured you didn't want to see me, but I wanted to know you were safe." He looks back.

"Safe from what, exactly? What kind of mess have you gotten me into now?" I cross my arms over my chest.

He shakes his head. "Nothing you should ever be concerned about."

I'm sick of this vagueness. Always a secret with him. "Cut the shit. I'm not eighteen anymore. What's happening?"

His lip lifts from a corner. "Trust me; it never stopped you when you were eighteen either." He observes me like he's remembering. "Aren't you just as curious as I am to know who was sent to kill me at the house? I could have died in your arms, softly choking on your name."

Dramatic.

I motion a frown and a shrug. "How do I know you didn't deserve it? Edward Cullen Jr. at large for committing all kinds of heinous crimes. Maybe I should've helped."

His eyes narrow.

"Maybe," he says. "One day I'll let you do it. It's what you want, isn't it?"

"It's crossed my mind a few times." He can't help but let that suppressed grin show.

Oh, he knows.

We stand here, but it's far from idle. I feel the energy, pulse after pulse; him wanting to pounce. He licks his lips, I look at that.

"Follow me, right now. I'll show you what's happening," he challenges. "You can be my right hand again." He pauses, and then he smiles menacingly. "My right hand in all aspects, really."

My stomach seems to knot.

 _Again?_

What does that mean?

He looks away, at his feet when he sees the questions in my eyes. He patronizes, but he stops himself. Out of guilt? I don't know. I can't read him like I used to.

"Oh, don't stop now." I challenge right back.

He turns to snap the lapels of his jacket straight. He tugs on a sleeve and keeps his eyes on his own reflection.

I hate so very much how appealing he looks. From memory, those shoulders have broadened, that chest has filled out more and those hands that held mine so closely look stronger.

He sees me. He shifts just right, bends his elbow. The reflection is a couple, standing side by side.

He's grown, and so have I. Don't we look like a pair.

His eyes smolder.

I move away.

"Why do you still do this? This exhausting switch? After all these years, is it even relevant?" I ask. I'm curious. He's always alone. He hides. He schemes, and that's his life. "Don't you ever want something honest?"

He stares. And just when I think he'll leave untold answers, he curls his arm around my waist. "You and me, far away. I'll build a boat, a house, put some babies inside you. I'd leave it all. Say the word."

I'm disarmed again. His words; the same as the first night I remembered everything.

I slip off his hold and stagger back.

Sue pushes out a rack of suits, every one of them with his measurements on them.

He watches me from over her shoulder. He pulls off the marked-up suit. Sue frantically apologetic as the pins have stuck to him in places.

He never complained about the pain, just his eagerness to be close. The price he'd pay. He's been through far worse.

He pulls on his dark shades and steps out of the shop with one last look my way. And the way he looks is deadly.

And I wonder as he leaves with a new suit hugging him like a glove, new shoes, and a new identity; how honest is he these days? Has the insanity leaked into his real life? But then, which is his real life; the one back at the house or the one here?

At least for today I push the anger away and soak in this overwhelming feeling of wonder over everything he just said.

I don't see him for weeks.

. .

. .

"Move!" The bouncer yells. The group in front of us step away but are confused. He doesn't want to pick from them. He looks above their heads.

The girls laugh beside me. Like old times, in college, we spruce up, liquor up, and try to get into the busiest bars. This one is a challenge, but we always did get picked with a scan of the crowd.

One of the girls stands up straighter, jutting out her chest. She's the tallest; keg stands for her were easy. Guys ogled at her gymnastics skills as she pushed herself up with no help. Now she's an attorney.

The bouncer lays eyes on her. It never fails. He drops his gaze to the rest of us, and like clockwork, it ends on me.

He beckons with his fingers. "Come along, gorgeous," he says to me. I grab onto a hand, and like a chain, the girls follow.

I took Sue's suggestion. A night out to loosen up. I was even nice enough to ask Claire to join. She was surprised. But her bitter ass still finds me appalling, so she refused. She had better things to do.

The music is loud, the bar replete, the girls look from end to end, and this just might be a good night.

"How did you know about this place?" asks the tall one. I shrug, give her the most generic answer and hope it doesn't give me away.

"A friend."

She dances in place and walks backward toward the bar. Her hips swaying, knowing a few male eyes are already on her. There will be a few ordered drinks for her before she even reaches the bar.

I smile.

I look around for VIP. I take a stool at the bar and stakeout.

A stranger with tight pants and slicked-back hair gets close.

"No," I say before he even speaks. He moves away with a nod. My focus is on that door and how I can get in there.

Sue brought up this place. All week she talked about Edward's little visit to the shop. It's all she can talk about. She asked if he's been around or if he's been in contact. I narrowed my eyes at her. She denied she gave him my number. She kept up the conversation that was more one-sided, and in there she mentioned this bar.

Cullen family endorsed.

I turn to tall Lauren. "Okay, well. There's more."

She hops up on her toes and bellows her excitement over the bar. "I knew there was more!" She tucks into my side. The other girls overhear and click-clack heels our way. "Spill it." They all listen.

"It's a VIP kind of night, don't you think? For old times' sake." I look at Lauren. "Get us in."

She curtsies and pushes up her bra, cleavage showing, almost pouring out. "Stand back, girls. Let the women do the real work." We all laugh. The difference is this is my life. For them, it's a night out about to get crazy. She grabs my hand, and we make our way across the dance floor with brief instructions on my part.

A guard at the door sucks on a cigar. Lauren asks for a light. The rest of us lounge not far away.

She's talking to him. I don't know what she says but the moment she beckons me over I run with whatever she throws at me. Once, she said I was an escort, and she was there to exchange a business transaction. She drops a common name, and it always seems to work. This time it won't, unless it's the real deal.

I read her lips. She follows my instructions.

She beckons.

Here goes nothing.

I flip my hair and hike up my dress. Mousy and mysterious always works for me. I lean on the threshold near him; I take in the straw from my drink through my lips.

"It's her first time. So don't give her trouble," Lauren says to him. He looks at me from head to toe.

"Isn't she a little too old for first times?" he asks skeptically. I almost gasp audibly.

"I'm sorry. Were you expecting a minor?" Lauren asks him, the law at the tip of her tongue. "Is that what you like, chump? You chasing after really young girls? That's twenty years in prison minimum, you pervert!"

"Lauren." I stop her. The guy is confused and looking pretty irritated. I straighten my back and shake off the facade.

"Let's cut to the chase. I'm not sure Mr. Cullen would like it very much if he knew you were giving us trouble tonight. I mean, he is in town now, has been for weeks. I could easily get a hold of him and tell him how much of a gentleman you're being. Please don't make me lose my delightful buzz over this ridiculous misunderstanding."

He freezes. He looks at Lauren, then looks at me.

He steps to the side.

"Have a wonderful night," I say smiling.

The girls all round up behind me, and we sound like a damn stampede as we move up the stairs. Lauren laughing her ass off.

"I've never been so mortified in my life! You had to use the escort story, didn't you?" I ask over my shoulder.

Lauren shrugs. "We don't look as young as we used to, I guess. Who are Emmett and Mr. Cullen anyway?"

I sigh. "I don't know. I heard they own the place." Lauren snickers at our lascivious ways.

"This is wild. Can't wait to tell my sister about this. Uptight my ass!" Everyone in this narrow staircase can't help but laugh.

It's full up here. There's a bar, a few waitresses wearing very little clothes. Cards are shuffled on a far away table where I see who I've been looking for.

We settle for sticking by the bar under the shadows for now. Men sit around tables in different corners of the room, some lounge in leather sofas under red lights. Dancers sway here and there over a lap or two (those girls are definitely younger). Smoke takes up the tense air. Jazz plays through the walls it seems, but I can't see a band anywhere.

The card table is loud and obnoxious. I watch Emmett make a round, dividing the deck. A mound of cash sits in the middle.

We order drinks and scope out the place. Every one of the girls seems to be planning their next move. That's how they've always done it in college. I usually sat and watched, only getting drink offers from strangers throughout the night—until Lauren pushed someone at me.

The card table gets exceedingly loud, and soon after they all laugh heartily. Emmett watches a young guy gather the cash closer to his side as he takes a drink.

A seat becomes available at the table.

I nod toward the guy to Lauren. She takes the clue and goes to distract him at the bar.

I take the seat.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

Emmett looks up.

He's never been the type to be taken aback by anyone or anything, but his slight slacked jaw says otherwise. He takes me in.

I nod. "Emmett."

He sits back in his chair. "A ghost before my eyes."

"And a pretty one at that," says another from beside me. He's ignored.

"I thought you were—"

"Dead? Buried? Sorry to ruin your night." I grin.

He looks around.

"I'm alone. He's actually the one I'm looking for. I need to talk to him, Emmett."

He takes his eyes off me and shuffles cards. Grays have appeared at his temples and face, only to make him look even more handsome. Years show in his eyes, though—the hustle, the struggle. That same chain he wore when I was younger adorns his neck. He sucks on his molars.

"What the hell do you need him for? If I recall, your old man had clear orders; no contact."

I remember Dad's words … or warning. "I've got all night," I say, settling in my seat. "What are we playing, poker?" I scan the table. Mr. Nosy beside me smiles.

"You're wasting your time. I'll have you dragged out of here and your thirty-year-old friends."

I smile at him. "Awe, c'mon. All those years, when I was a kid, you had your share of the wise ones. I bet they taught you all you know." I wink.

The full table laughs.

"We go way back, Emmett and me," I finish saying to the onlookers.

He's getting bored of this. I've never spoken to him for this long before. I'm feeling this out, and his patience is getting thin.

"You're in my chair," is what I suddenly hear behind me. I look up. Our eyes meet, and his mouth goes slack before he catches himself.

"You heard him. You're in his chair. You know where the door is." Emmett.

I gesture. "Oh, this chair?" I look at the back of it. "Didn't see a name." I smile and turn to show more legs. "Though, I didn't catch yours either." I smile up at the familiar face. He looks around.

"Jenks. My chair, ma'am."

Liar. I know his name is Ben. And Ben used to sit by me in high school and let me copy off his homework. I reel a little. I try my hardest to play it off. His ashen face pleads for me to play it off.

"Ma'am? That stung, _Jenks._ How about you make it up to me and let me rest my old, achy _twenty-something-year-old_ bones for a while. Run along now." I turn back to the card game. "Where were we? Right. Poker. Where are my cards?" I rub my hands together. Mr. Nosy passes me my deck.

Those old familiar hands that hugged me close or passed me notes in class reach over my shoulder and snatch the deck from me.

Next thing I know he takes me by the waist and lifts me off enough to slide right under my ass. I'm jostled onto his lap.

"Or we can get nice and familiar real quick," I mutter. The group chuckles. My heart stutters.

I swing an arm behind his back and turn to my old friend's profile. "You've got two 'As. What does that mean?" I whisper loud enough for the table to hear.

They groan and slap their deck on the felt.

Emmett glares.

"All night." I smile his way.

Ben clears his throat. He's definitely uncomfortable. I run a few fingers at his nape for old time's sake. I watch him. His heart beating hastily under my palm. I run it there, up and over to his shoulder where I lock my hands. This was the way we spent our lunchtime back in the day, before I got a boyfriend and he had five girlfriends.

The only difference this time is he's older, broader and terrified. But man, is he still a looker. His clothes aren't him. He'd wear clean lines, black, and Marten boots. Now he wears a jersey, a gold chain and jeans over high top sneakers you'd see more of on the streets. I scratch at a tattoo on his forearm. His arm tenses.

I'd like to yell at him, ask him why he's here. But what I say instead is, "You gonna buy me a drink at least?"

The older men around the table snicker.

Emmett doesn't.

Ben's the youngest. The rookie, it seems. His hand light with beginner's luck, a mound of cash in front of him when he won earlier.

"Better get the lady a drink," Mr. Nosy says. I pick up a bill and wave it in front of his face. He waves down a waitress.

We take our drinks, and before we clink he looks at me, and I look at him. We know, somehow, someway, we're talking about this.

. .

. .

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I hiss. He pins me to the wall by the bathroom. It's dark.

"I could ask the same about you," he says angrily. He frames me in with a palm against the wall. "It's dangerous here."

I scoff. "I don't think it's the right place for you, either." He pulls me close. Tucks into my neck. It's all for show.

"You need to leave."

"We. You and me. I have questions. You're driving me home. And my friends." He pulls away. "What? I can't leave them here alone. You said it yourself."

He dares, he grabs me and gives me a lingering kiss. I smile a little when he pulls away. He always was sweet. Seems like he still is.

"Outside. Five minutes."

I grab his shirt. "Are you married yet? Any kids? That definitely felt like a dad kiss." I say.

"Outside, Bella. Shit." He hisses.

He heads out the door where we came from. I gather the girls in whatever drunken state they're in. Some stay behind as they've found their hookups for the night. Lauren assures me they'll be fine, but a few giggling fools follow us.

Emmett watches me from across the room. I didn't get what I intended to get; he's relentless, but I think I got his attention tonight. _Jenks and I_ got his attention. I'll let this show express itself with time.

I leave, but I leave with more questions.

We climb into a very beat up Toyota, and it feels like high school all over again. Ben at the wheel is simmering, getting through streets and stopping only long enough to wait for a friend to climb out.

The girls are loud and obnoxious. Lauren hangs out a rolled down window waving, hollering vulgar things at retreating girls.

The moment I close the door to the car and watch Lauren stumble through her apartment, I say, "Spill it. All of it."

He hits the clutch and shifts, the car lurches.

"What do you mean?"

"Ben."

He's quiet. Eventually, he speaks. "I'm a friend of Emmett's. He gave me work. It's my first month on the job."

"Bullshit. You call yourself Jenks, and you're wearing … that. I don't know what that is. I know you, _Ben."_

We bounce around on the road through the longest silence ever.

I reach over, cover his hand with mine. "I'm out for the same reasons you are."

The car swerves. I brace myself. He leads us onto a makeshift road. He slams the brakes and kills the lights. We sit here in darkness.

"What are you trying to say?" he asks. "What are my reasons?"

My heart speeds up.

"Do you think this is a joke, Bella? We're mafia. We hunt, we kill, we make serious money. Is that what you're out for?"

"No, I'm out for the people who killed my mother. And when I find them, I plan to kill them myself."

He stares at me. He blinks.

"You'd boldly say that, straight-faced, to an FBI agent?"

"I don't know. Am I talking to one right now?"

He leans in; his arm on the steering wheel, the other on my headrest.

"You're talking to an undercover agent, and you almost blew my cover back there. I could take you in right now for this."

I smile. "Holy shit, Ben. I'm so proud of you."

He scoffs as he rolls his eyes.

"How? Where did you go to college?"

He starts the car and backs up.

"Far away."

I nod. "Mysterious. I like it." I stare at him with this involuntary grin. I open my mouth to ask—

"No wife or kids. Now leave it alone," he interrupts with grit.

"Solid." I nod. "They must fall at your feet; women. You've … obviously aged well."

His jaw flexes along with every hard shift under his palm. His leather jacket is nostalgic. He'd always wear one when we were young. His buzz cut telling me otherwise.

"You should probably let it grow."

"What?"

"Military, right? How many years?"

He looks over at me, then rubs his head.

"It's too obvious," I say.

"Marine Corps. Four years. Infantry. Got injured so, I left. This isn't my first job."

I'm stunned. Come to think of it, I don't remember him at all after… everything. I feel this pang of sadness in my chest.

"They killed her." My eyes blur. All the weight finally settling in the presence of an understanding friend I used to confide in.

"I figured that when you were gone." He doesn't look at me.

Then I realize how everything must have affected the people I left behind. Friends, close ones.

I reach and cover his hand. This thumb comes up and over mine.

My apartment is dark. I lie awake in bed. The air still smelling of herbs. A warm teacup on my bedside table. All the things I try to remember sparking alive over my ceiling. It's like this most nights.

I wait for it.

My eyes drift closed, and maybe my plan really didn't follow through.

But then I hear the door budge. My heart speeds anyway. I grip the knife under my pillow with all my might.

The bolt seems to give way like paper. And there he is, like a thief in the night. Standing in the shadow of my doorway, letting out all the heat.

He seems to have frozen over for a moment. I blink up at him from my pillow.

He moves.

He steps in and disappears through my small kitchen, and then he's back. He steps right into my bathroom. No one there. The loft is open, no real clever places to hide. Maybe he'll go as far as looking under my bed.

"I fucked him. He just left. I'm … tired," I tell him. Edward doesn't move from where he stands watching me. But if I closed my eyes, I could find him by his fuming breaths alone.

I smile.

For once, my plan worked.

. .

. .


	8. Chapter 8 - Closure

**A/N: So, like, I even got shingles between chaps. So, yeah. Worst few months. I really can't afford to do this pause again, so I'll try to speed it up for next time. This was a chap I cradled a lot because I just needed to get it right. Let me know if I did.**

 **I wrote a one-shot for Secrets &Lies Contest. It won awards. *hearts* And it was nominated over at TwiFanFiction Recs for May completed fics. Check it out and vote. xoxo**

* * *

 _-Previously-_

 _My apartment is dark. I lie awake in bed. The air still smelling of herbs. A warm teacup on my bedside table. All the things I try to remember sparking alive over my ceiling. It's like this most nights._

 _I wait for it._

 _My eyes drift closed, and maybe my plan really didn't follow through._

 _But then I hear the door budge. My heart speeds anyway. I grip the knife under my pillow with all my might._

 _The bolt seems to give way like paper. And there he is, like a thief in the night. Standing in the shadow of my doorway, letting out all the heat._

 _He seems to have frozen over for a moment. I blink up at him from my pillow._

 _He moves._

 _He steps in and disappears through my small kitchen, and then he's back. He steps right into my bathroom. No one there. The loft is open, no real clever places to hide. Maybe he'll go as far as looking under my bed._

 _"I fucked him. He just left. I'm … tired," I tell him. Edward doesn't move from where he stands_ watching _me. But if I closed my eyes, I could find him by his fuming breaths alone._

 _I smile._

 _For once, my plan worked._

 **Chapter 8 – Closure**

 **Present**

He looks even paler under the light of the moon; his hair like midnight blue. He wears a light jacket, a t-shirt beneath it and slacks that look like he pulled them off the floor in the dark.

"Would you mind closing the door?" I ask.

He's motionless, and it just makes him look like a statue coming to life when he finally moves.

He slams the door shut.

I start.

"Don't kill him, I just used him to get my friends and myself home—and to get you in here. He's a poor innocent chump. I figured Emmett would talk."

He exhales audibly, runs a hand over his face tiredly.

"You are one difficult man to get a hold of, you know that?" I continue talking without a thought. I sit up and bundle my pillow behind me. He notices my full-fledged pajamas, yoga pants, and fluffy socks. Probably not the attire one wears immediately after a rumble on a one-night-stand. I pull the robe over my chest. His eyes move up to mine.

"Did I interrupt a murder or an interrogation of some kind? I wasn't sure when to reach you. You look like hell."

 _I guess I'm the only one talking here_.

He sluggishly shuffles around, his eyes blank as they land on any random object around him. He finally finds a place to sit. He leans his elbows on his knees in a slouch, drops his keys and a crowbar on the carpet.

"You think that's all I do?" He finally responds.

I shrug. "I don't know. Don't you?"

"Yeah, kind of, but it's not my point," he says. I try not to react. "You know—you here—I can't keep an eye on you. I gotta tell yah, I don't like it." He shakes his head.

I roll my eyes.

"Come to my place. I got a big bed, a big TV. You can … actually move around over there, and in my bed," he deadpans.

"Would you just …" I lift a hand and scoff. "Jesus."

He flicks his wrists and lets his hands fall like he gives up.

Right by him there's a small wine rack Sue bought that conveniently functions as a side table to his plush couch. He pulls one out, turns it over in his hands and cracks the label to get the cork off the champagne. The plug pops soundly, and bubbles get going. He takes a long drink, breathes, and makes a face of approval.

"Winded?"

"Well, what the fuck do you think?" He snaps. "I come all the way here, and you're just … sitting there looking comfortable … and soft, while I busted my balls to get here. You haven't changed, like one bit. You know that?"

I'd smile if I weren't so torn on using this knife behind me or tie him down until he tells me everything. I roll my eyes when the latter just seems like something he wouldn't mind me doing.

"What? Did you have to ditch your lay and come running?"

He looks at me, the bottle hanging from his fingers. "Wouldn't you like that, to sharpen up those horns on my head more."

"Well, did you? No wifey on the side? All these years?"

"I haven't been dead, but if you must know, not tonight," he says with a searing look. "You weren't the only one who had to adjust to life. You left to live blissfully unaware. I had to find someone to warm my bed."

I roll my head over the headboard behind me. "Oh, please, like you were innocent in that nightmare you dragged me into."

There's a slight shake to his head. "I gave you the choice. I always did."

I shrug. "Well, how would I know? I can't remember anything. And no one is willing to tell me!"

He's quiet.

"That was a prompt, Edward," I nudge. "Like, you can answer this: why did you have to listen to Dad? Why weren't you there when I woke up? Explain that."

His brows knit. And for the first time, I see hurt. His face young, like time just turned back in seconds.

"I … agreed it would be best. You didn't exactly want me. And how are you so sure I wasn't there when you awoke?"

I let out a breath.

"You were wrecked," he says. "Wounded everywhere. I couldn't even fucking recognize you, let alone touch you. Your father beat the shit out of me, and … I let him. I deserved it."

I blink. Tears seem to flow on their own. He sees. He sighs like it breaks him apart at the thought alone.

"She didn't deserve it. None of it." I murmur.

His head dips until I can't see his face.

"I promise I tried to find whoever planned it, Bella. I did all I could."

I wipe at my face. "Of all the things you have control over, this had to be the one you didn't."

He says nothing.

"So, why did I leave?" I ask.

The memories seem to rush past his eyes, and I wish I could see them just the same.

"It became too much. One night you came to me, blood on your lips, black eye, ripped knuckles. There were a few of them against you. I was about ready to turn the world upside down to find them. Everyone knew who you were and who you belonged to. But, you know what you said to me? 'There's no one to look for. I took care of it.'"

I watch him let out a laugh. He's lost in thought.

"I had to go send people to clean up what you did," he says. He looks at me and smirks. "You made me so fucking proud."

"That's nothing to be proud of, Edward."

"That's exactly what you said to me. From there on, it was a downhill struggle for you to cope. You couldn't take it anymore. But you never went down without a struggle. Not even when they went after you and your mother."

I nod. "It's why you'll let me in," I say. "You'll let me do what I have to do and how I want to do it. I have to find my mother's killers. You owe me that much."

"Over my dead body," he says with sudden anger and certainty.

"Over yours and your entire family if that's what it takes," I tell him. "I'll figure it out if you won't."

He doesn't take his eyes away.

"There are rules, Bella. Sacred ones we go by. I don't even let my most trusted colleague in—and you? You're angry."

I chuckle. "No. You haven't seen angry."

His brows knit. "You're not making your case. How can I ever trust you like this?"

"You did once. You can again. You'll just have to."

He lets out a chuckle. His hands come up to his face. They press together against his lips like a prayer. Maybe he's hoping Christ would save him from this, but no one can.

"I'll give it to you—everything—anything you want," he says suddenly. "But you'll give me the same from you."

All I give him is a glare.

He continues. "You find your target. I'll find somewhere far away where we can go. When you're ready, we leave. No turning back."

"What the hell makes you think I'd do such a thing with you?" I say.

He moves. My muscles tense and they also hum. He crawls onto my bed from the end. The champagne bottle slams on the nightstand by my shoulder.

I can't help but bring the quilt up over myself a little.

Like I'd ever hide from this monster.

He's inches away. Hovering. Simmering. Crawling up my sides and kneeling on all fours above me.

"Open your arms, then those lips. I'll show you."

"Stay away from me."

"Pull my hair. Beat me. Then kiss me."

"I'm warning you," I try to say calmly.

He delves his hand behind me and pulls out the knife. I fumble to grab it first, but all I see is that blade flying.

It sticks. The handle bobs; the point driven into the closet door.

"First things first; you can't be predictable. They'll eat you alive," he says.

My shoulders drop. I settle back in my spot.

"And secondly, stop trying to kill me," he adds.

"I'm not, I … how was I supposed to know it would really be you breaking in here? It was a precaution."

He stares at me.

"Okay. Fine. But I wasn't lying. I … forgot it was even back there." I roll my eyes.

"Would you feel safe if I gave you something to keep here?"

I scoff. "Honestly? No."

He gazes for a while. "You're gorgeous when you're like this," he whispers. "After all these years … " He skims my cheek with his nose. "You still make me crazy."

These deceiving eyes of mine seem to close again. My hand juts out instantly to push him away. But then I think—

Trust.

He seeks it just like my touch. He always steals a kiss whenever we meet, like time never widened that gap between us. He's ready to pick up where we left off.

His lips dance around my lids, down my neck. He melts over me. His arms and legs give way. His lips go down this journey over my chest, his chin paving the way. He inhales deeply and curls an arm around my back.

"Every day I thought of you," he murmurs over my t-shirt. I still have his wrapped around my fist. That space between his brows creases, eyes closed.

This, only this part makes me fear, not all the violence and the chase. It's his … frankness. He always has been. I fear because even if I try my very hardest, I always fall into this.

He settles there, cheek to breasts, clouds in his head. He used to do this very thing in my old bed.

And I think—trust. I need to let him feel it.

"Okay," I whisper.

I move a hand through his hair, also like I used to. It's the answer I gave him the first time I accepted his life into mine.

I need to now. I must. For my mother and for my only dying chance to end this.

He looks up. I twist my hand and pull him from his collar. I initiate a single kiss to seal this, but he takes more.

His breathing grows heavy after he finally lets go of my mouth. He jostles the bed as he kneels above me. He pulls his jacket off, and he says, "Take off my clothes." His eyes are dark. He challenges this; my word, his validation.

With trembling hands, I touch the hem of his shirt. He slaps my hands away. "Not that first."

I glare.

He waits.

This is how he does his job; manipulates and intimidates to see right through your hidden intention.

I sure as fuck won't be one of his dying, helpless victims.

I push him away. He lands on his heels, and he watches me rid my clothes before I even lay a finger on him.

He sighs.

His mouth goes slack, and so does his spine. His eyelids flutter just like they always have at the sight. His knuckles dip into the bed as he moves to sit at the edge and watch, ready to pull me in. His hand reaches out. I slap it away.

"Your orders first. A deal is a deal," I say and let my hair loose.

He's thrown—and quite literally. I climb on, and he lands on his back.

I yank on his belt and pants. I crawl up, and his shirt is next. He watches, cocooned under me, breasts hovering above him as I pull at everything between us. He merely catches a perked nipple into his mouth. He sighs when our chests meet for the first time. His hair falls in disarray. He's all lazy eyelids and a heaving chest.

I push him down and wrap a hand around his neck.

"Bella," he says firmly. He grabs at my wrist. But, all he can do is brace himself, holding onto my hips.

I writhe on him until he comes alive. I grip his hair and slide, skin to skin. "It's what you want, right?"

He looks up at me. He clamps his jaw and watches me move until I come undone. My breathing escalates. My lips part and then come all the sighs at the feelings that make my eyes close, and my fists tighten. My head dips, nails dig in. Every muscle lax and warm.

I grow frantic.

I shudder and cry out.

I float down from this, and it's endless—a feather finding its way back to the ground. Then I open my eyes, and I see myself. I'm above and looking down.

I look at him. I pull back.

The skin around his neck is red, sweat over his chest, his cock hard and wet because I did this.

My chest feels tight. I try, but I can't take a breath that'll go deep enough.

I look into his eyes. A sob comes pouring out of me, and so do all the memories of us like this.

"Bella," he says differently this time. He sits. He scoops me up, and I meld myself to him, cognizant of what he once meant to me. And the feeling bursts so strongly.

I cry. I fiercely kiss him all the way to his lips like I did in another life when I yearned invariably for him.

He hugs me tight and takes my mouth to his willingly; we're reckless now.

We fall over one another, tumbling, taking turns to love the other, grasping the familiar feeling that's right at the tip of our tongue. We cannot wait.

He's zealous, thirsty of the void in him emptied out for years now. He's filling up.

We join, and we're desperate. I hook my legs around him like he taught me once and lose myself. He cups my face and waits for me to open my eyes. It's like he knew—this feels like we've never been apart a day in our lives.

It scares the hell out of me; more than anything I've grown to learn in this piece of life I'm recovering.

When we're spent, he pants over me and caresses all the red skin we've exhausted. To lavish. To reminisce. To see the changes; all the favorite parts he remembers. I'm dormant but feel his lips still. Then he pulls me to him again. I don't fight it, I fully surrender. Tears drip down my temples every time.

This was not my plan. They're wrung out and mangled.

I've become utterly powerless.

...

I awake and then I remember. I look down. Naked. The pillows all sprawled. I see one of my fluffy socks hanging off the edge of the bed, right over his shirt.

He whistles a Sinatra tune, and I silently cry wondering how I let the insane neighbor into my apartment this time. I bury my face in the pillow I'm betting he used, because it smells of him.

I find myself smothered in it for far too long. I tear it away.

How did I go from wanting to slice his neck to holding on to it while I—?

I cringe. I wipe at my cheeks.

He whistles, and it rings too sharply in my ears.

His bare feet pad on my kitchen linoleum. The spatula hits the pan one too many times.

Is he seriously cooking? I look over my shoulder. He looks over.

Wink.

He turns to the stove in nothing but my apron. His ass bare, and that dip to his back, the dimples; I dug my nails into those.

My heart pounds.

I get so angry. I was disarmed completely. Memories gripped me and ruined everything.

Something sizzles in a pan. At my stove. Mine. He takes over that and anything I own, anywhere I go. Back at the house and now here.

"Get out," I say. It comes right out.

He continues whistling.

"I said leave," I say more loudly.

He looks over. He turns back again without a word.

I get up off the bed. I charge toward the kitchen. "You come here, and you manipulated me! I'm not one of your fucking clients."

"Sure you are," he finally says. "This is how I seal all my deals. Well…" He pauses to think. "Definitely not all night. One fuck usually does it. And they certainly don't come all over me." He winks at me again.

I grab a plate from the setup he put together at the table and throw it. It clatters by the cabinets at his legs.

"Take your shit and leave." I point at the door.

He tilts his head at the plate. His eyes darken. Now he's pissed.

He tosses the spatula on the stove and pulls off the apron. And maybe I shouldn't have pushed. He's bare, and this sight really isn't what it used to be. He's gorgeous, and more and—I look away.

"Come here," he says. His fingers curl, beckoning, lips pale with anger.

I look from under my lashes. "You don't tell me what to do, and certainly not in my house."

"As of last night, when you said you wanted in and fucked all over me, it's not up to you anymore. It's training day, and I'm boss," he shouts, pointing at his chest. "Come here."

I cringe.

I did do that. And even when we were soapy and rinsed each other off in the shower, and fell back in bed, I initiated another round of … tragedy. I was eighteen again, and his fingers at my lips are all I remembered.

I bite my tongue and humor him. I get close to the cabinets, but not close enough to him. He reaches out and yanks me, leaving the sheets I dragged here pooling at our feet. He tugs my arms around his back securely and makes me make two fists. Locked in.

I take him in, my front pressed to his. And that pillow had nothing on it compared to this proximity. I try not to take a long and deep consuming breath, and definitely not nose to chest.

He brushes my hair back off my face, runs his hands where he likes.

"Now, how do you politely greet someone in the morning?"

He waits.

"Good morning," I say tightly.

"That's right. And what do you say to someone who has slaved over the stove all morning while you snored your little nose away." He bops said nose with a finger. I glare. "Who, by the way, had to send out for eggs and bread because your irresponsible self ran out and didn't fetch more for your guest. What do you say to that?" I feel his hands on my ass.

I look around. Bacon and sausage links are sizzling. There's artisan bread in the oven and eggs Benedict on plates with that cream sauce you pour over it that I love so much.

"Sent out for some …? Who the hell came in here?"

He spanks me back to focus. "What do you say?" he says, running a hand there.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" He turns his ear a hair away from my lips. I could easily bite it off.

But I don't.

"I said thank you … for the excessiveness."

"See? That wasn't so difficult was it?" He kisses me hard. "I could cut that smart tongue of yours," he says against my lips and again puckers. "Go get the plate you rudely threw at me and come sit and eat with me." He nudges me toward it. "It's the first morning I get to cook for my favorite girl." He grins.

I'm quietly devastated inside, but he isn't. He's cool as a cucumber. I'm halfway through my Benedict, and he's tucked over the Sunday paper, a fork in one hand awaiting his mouth, and all of this transpires with a toned bare chest that goes up and down with his easy breathing.

He flips the fork on its side and cuts a perfectly shaped bite. He stabs a chunk of sausage and stacks it all in a neat wedge of tomato. The cucumber he drizzled in olive oil and seasonings caps it off. He pops all of that into his mouth and hums just faintly.

That quite literally goes straight up my thighs.

And it pisses me off.

I watch the lines of his jaw as they get going. And it all finishes off with a terribly sensual bob of his throat as he swallows.

He flips the pages, looks around. Scratches a pec with a thumb and reaches for his glass of orange juice I definitely didn't have in the fridge.

I do remember Sundays being his fresh start. I wonder if they still are.

He's so much. Too much. He takes up the entire room by simply existing. The memories flash behind my lids, and it's definitely the same boy I fell head over heels for, but the boy grew up. He had experiences, trials, and struggles. Saw through bloodshed, and all the impossible things one could never fathom. And he came out of it unscathed. He sits here, by me, and it's probably nothing short of a miracle.

Except, I never expected to be this muddled around him. Better yet, I never knew this intensity existed. I never felt it with any of my exes.

He reaches over and stabs more food to go on my plate.

"Eat. We have to leave soon."

"Where?"

He doesn't answer but takes another bite. I sigh and eat everything on my plate because frankly, it's all fucking delicious.

"Don't worry. I'll take you to bed before we shower and leave."

I straighten; the heel of my foot is still comfortably hooked to my chair like I always sit at my table, the bedsheet still loosely around me.

My table, my sheets, my place—and I lured him over.

"Excuse me? What the fuck gives you the entitlement over that choice?" I argue.

"You're staring," he says. "I can sense you want to. Definitely right over this table if given a chance. You're already wet, aren't you?" He flips his utensil and licks it, never once looking my way.

My mouth drops open. "I don't know what the fuck I ever saw in you. Self-righteous, vulgar piece of … " I jump.

Before I can finish, he reaches down to dip his hand under the sheets and aims between my legs. I gasp and bat him away.

His fingers come up glistening. "Here or on the bed?" he asks.

I'm speechless.

He calmly folds up the newspaper and neatly stacks the few empty plates in front of him. I'm quickly perched on the edge of the table before I can react.

I brace with arms behind me, and he's already nudging my legs open, pushing inside me.

"Ah!" My head dips back, and there goes my fight as I feel his teeth on my neck. And he moves like there's nowhere to go and we have all day.

I've never been so appalled—and turned on—in all my life. This feeling is alien.

We step out of my apartment, and two men greet us, standing by my door. They nod at Edward, who is now wearing a suit. Where did he get it? I give up asking myself. I just stared the entire time he slipped something on and buttoned it up. My hands trembling on the buttons of my blouse. Not to mention how he walked over to hook my bra himself, before tucking into my shoulder. He took a long pull into his lungs and walked away to dress himself. I just stared blankly at myself in the mirror. Screaming at my insides for letting all this happen.

Point is, his little helpers were standing here listening to everything we were doing.

I wipe the sudden perspiration off my neck out of shame. And then Edward holds my other hand.

I stop. I look down at that. So does he.

"I would say it could be worse, but we've already done worse. Don't you think?" He pulls on his shades, and walks, tugging me along.

Here's how this goes for the next several hours. I tag along, no one gives me a second look, but I'm included in all of the commutes, planning, and meetings. His 'clients' refer to Edward and me by name, before they continue their pitch for Edward 's next endorsement.

This is how the Cullen's make their money. But as we sit in the back of a restaurant Edward owns, no customers in sight since we're by the kitchen, I figure this isn't the only way they make their money.

There's more, and he's holding back.

I lean close to his shoulder after a client leaves and ask, "This isn't everything, is it?"

He turns his eyes to me. Guards stand around, and everyone is quietly talking to themselves as they take the break.

"What do your uncles do? Do they work with you?"

He slowly shakes his head, like he's hesitating. "There are many divisions. They hire their own men for the jobs. They just report to me on progress."

I nod, thinking. It explains why he wouldn't know about Ben. Not that Edward would ever remember a detail like that. High school was long ago, and they were never in the same crowd of friends. I ease a little with that thought alone.

I stand, put on my jacket, and aim for the back door. Edward tenses, looking up at me. "Where are you going?"

"You know, I'm not here to be distracted with silly details about your work. I want to know what you really do. I want to see the gore and blood you all hide so much. The work you would never show your mother—God bless her soul—because I'm not sitting here to waste my precious Sunday on bullshit. So, I'm leaving. For dinner. A movie. Or a fucking manicure. I don't know. Anything sounds more entertaining than this."

At this point, everyone is quiet and listening. The few dings and clangs from the fully running kitchen are the only sounds around us.

Edward's jaw goes sharp, and if looks could broil limbs, right now I'd be burnt coal in the oven.

His eyes cut to someone behind me and the door is suddenly blocked.

"Signore, una pasta con gamberetti, per favore," he says while watching me.

"Si, si," says the chef at the busy line. He's polishing off the dishes about to be served. He shouts the order, and it's an echo to the back of the kitchen as everyone repeats.

Edward taps on my vacant chair. "Sit."

I sigh, and I do, because right about now shrimp scampi sounds fucking delicious. It's not a restaurant I've been to because money and me not having much of it.

Edward leans in. "Just so you know, every detail _is_ important. Not everything is gore and blood, Bella. Businesses and families depend on these meetings."

I snort. It comes out. I can't help it.

He glares.

"I'm sorry. It's just your concern over families and their needs are comical. I just can't see how they depend on loans that only bring more problems from with a family who preys on the unfortunate. Then they're beaten half to death when they don't pay up on time, with more interest than any lender out there would have the heart to charge. And that's a corporate bank we're talking."

Edward shifts in his chair like he's all in and feigning interest. "And tell me, how do you think these _banks_ get their money to lend, shuffle around, and make _fair_ deals with customers?"

I'm silent. Apparently this family ... They're much wealthier than I thought.

"That's ridiculous," I say. He lifts an eyebrow challenging me.

"Times have changed since you were last … with us."

The plate of pasta is put in front of us. A hefty mound of it and empty plates to serve. A waiter serves a portion to each of us.

"You hungry, you let me know next time instead of walking out," he says annoyed as he sips on a glass of wine.

I'm not hungry. Breakfast is still lingering … and everything that happened after. I was just trying to make a point. Now I'll just have to muscle through this and eat my entire portion and more, because, frankly, it's all fucking delicious.

Dammit, I forgot about the perks.

"Finish up your wine, and I'll show you gore and blood, Isabella Swan."

That just sounded alluring coming from his lips. I never knew words like those would bubble up excitement in my full belly.

...

I haven't seen Jasper in months. The moment his eyes find mine, I tremble a little. Is it intimidation or rage? I'm not quite sure. All I know is I look away when really, all I wanted to do was stare until he felt the fire I feel inside. I see him, and I think of Mom.

It's instant.

I hate him.

His lip quirks and he takes me in from head to toe. Those same eyes that took in my mother. Those large hands holding onto a fedora; they held and touched my mother's young skin. A glance at his lips and to think, that mouth captured Mom's until she gave in.

The narrow space toward an entrance is dark. I don't know where we are. The car stopped, we got out, and there's a tunnel aiming straight toward metal doors. A rusting lock unraveled on handles in the same condition.

Edward's back towers over me as he nods at his uncle in greeting. Then the narrow hallway fills. We have a brief moment of silence and pause before everyone moves through the door.

Jasper stares.

I square my shoulders, lift my chin and turn to him to stare right back. I'm here to slither my way into this family, not cower.

He chuckles with the new intensity I call to mind.

"It's a pleasure to see you again; you've been missed."

"I wish I could say the same," I respond.

His smile fades slowly. He seems to grasp the bases of the sentiment. The crease between his brows deepens, and he looks away. All the throat clearing in the world will never clear away the tense realization. The past catches up to this exchange between us.

And if I could, I'd fuck him up right here, this very second. I'd be elbow deep. Anger bites so hard at my insides that when we finally make it through the rusting doors, I know this training day has already surpassed any of my expectations.

My heart rages the moment Riley smiles up at me from where he sits. Even tied and looking like death has come to drag him away, he's himself; Malicious, inappropriate, and stupid.

He lets out a laugh of disbelief the second he lays eyes on me. My hand twined in Edward's still.

I let go.

Edward leans into me. "I have to warn you. This might be a little … uncomfortable."

His warning late and smug, but I wanted to see more of the job. So, here it is.

I'm frozen.

"What a surprise. My girl has come to rescue me."

Edward gets closer to shadow over my past nightmare incarnate.

"What is this?" I ask. Edward looks at me.

"Your gore and blood," he says now standing behind Riley.

I don't understand.

Edward takes in a breath. Tedious. He explains. "Our little encounter at home, remember? If I'm not mistaken, I think you killed two of the many intruders he sent my way."

Riley is angry. Sweat smears his face along with dirt. His dress shirt is streaked with blood around his chest. His nose the culprit; red, dried blood around his nostrils. He breathes, and a faint whistling is proof it was a struggle to get him here. And they weren't easy on him.

"You have no fucking proof!" he shouts.

Edward pauses to think for a moment, ignoring him. "I never thanked you, have I?" he asks me. He makes a circle and finds my side. His kiss is slow and soundly against my lips.

" _My_ girl came to rescue me," he says close. I stand perplexed, furrowed brows. I shove him away when he smiles.

Riley stares from under his lashes. His smirk comes slowly, but surely. "She always came for me, too," he says.

I see it, so clearly in my mind, like a flash. I picture myself beating his nose in and finishing him. My shoe off my foot in a second, the heel digging in with a hard bang, then again and again. Bones crack, skin splits, blood flows like new over his piece of shit face.

I blink and find myself on the table in front of him. I'm panting, and I realize I wasn't dreaming.

I'm pulled back. My heel slips from my hand. Riley cries out where he sits. Fresh blood drips over his mouth, down to his chest.

"Fucking bitch!" he shouts.

Jasper lifts the shoe off the floor and offers it, like a truce. I look around. The wide eyes stare back; Edward's beaming with pride, coupled with perfect pearly whites.

I yank my shoe from Jasper's grasp.

"If this were up to me, I'd kill him. Abusive mother fuckers shouldn't be given a second chance." I spit, this deep-rooted emotion coming through, bringing all the memories with it.

Edward's expression falters where he leans by a wall. His darkened eyes cut to Riley.

I walk out with new strengths and this satisfying closure of epic proportions.

…


	9. Chapter 9 - Pockets

**A/N: I wrote a new fic for the Babies at the Border Compilation, as did every amazing fic author out there for an extraordinary cause. If you haven't donated to the charities, please do so. And when doing so, you'll get a reallll thick PDF with nearly a million words. Oh, you know you want it!** ** **Find the Facebook group for more details.** Here's a summary of mine if it'll get you to donate. Thanks!**

 **When He Said Hello – _Based_ _of t_ _ **r** ue events_ **  
**It's a mystery how possessions on a campsite vanish. Everyone's bewildered. Sam is a local and he isn't. He knows how. He knows why. He knows a mute, young man living in the woods shouldn't be bothered. That's not what Bella witnessed, because just back there, when he said Hello, Bella was pretty sure the young man spoke to her. The mystery now is to find him.**

* * *

 **Oh ... what's this? Ah, yes. That mobward fic I paused for a long ass time. Go read. A few chapters are left. Thanks.**

* * *

 **Chapter 9 - Pockets**

 **Young**

No one knows I carry his gun. At night, when we go out, and the gang is all around laughing, staggering in their shoes with the alcohol pumping through their systems, they're oblivious about the cold metal in my pocket. He slips it in, sometimes against my back, while he kisses me the moment he sees me. I've grown accustomed to wearing his large jacket. I hide enough of whatever he needs in each pocket. He asks, and I hand it over. Even mint gum. He thankfully asks for that more regularly. He chews and chews, pops a few balloons and slides it over my tongue when he has enough of the juice.

I keep a pack of that and his favorite cigarettes. He carries nothing but his regular, ragged, dated clothes and this smirk on his lips, but only when he sees me. Everyone else gets malicious glares.

People fear him. I sometimes do, but not enough to challenge him. We argue. We yell. Mostly about me wanting to go wherever he goes or my objection to his dangerous intentions. He gets raging angry and punches at anything before it grows silent between us. Then he's goo at my feet asking for forgiveness. I know he always comes around. I get my word in. He listens.

It all began the night I interrupted the Cullen men in a meeting. I was in the room; a fly on the wall, until I wasn't.

"Don't charge in. Hit them where it really hurts. Take away what they live off of," is what I suggested. I spoke up. Everyone in the room stared.

I was just a visitor. The girl at his side, quite literally. Edward pulled me on his lap, and that's where I stayed all night. The chair swiveled beneath us, the library room floor was clear of Joe's blood. And my parents, not a hundred yards away, oblivious to their daughter making plans, speaking up, fleshing out what the next steps should be to avenge Edward's father.

The McCarthys would pay, and that was the plan.

Jasper blinked after getting stuck watching me really close.

"That works," he said. Everyone else took a moment to let it sink in. Bullheaded, they just thought of the gruesome ways to harm, not the passive, but deadly ones. Their minds full of violence overshadowed the clever and effective ways. I sat wondering if the lifestyle they upheld really did seem as cliché as I was seeing them. I was confused.

I said, "Why kill when you can make them suffer in far more ways they can't keep up with?" I added hesitantly.

Edward leaned in and pressed his lips to my cheek, lingering. Red blushed up under his lips there. I bit my lip to keep from saying more. How brute and dated their mindsets were.

I found Uncle Emmett's eyes. His fingers steepling over his mouth. He looked over at his father who they call Major, who I've known is actually named Edmond by birth. The old man in the wheelchair was parked at the corner of the room. His expression blank, but Carlisle's was smoldering. I think he decided he didn't like me at that instant. The other men stood around with furrowed brows.

Jasper was beaming in contrast. He chuckled low. He shook his head and turned his eyes to the rest like they all caught the humor in it, too. No one did, but they had no choice but to accept.

That was a month ago. In a sense, I have a seat at the table now. They all listen.

But you would never know this from looking at us together; Edward and me.

The couple.

He chews on gum watching the clowns tearing away at shots and lines of coke, while his nose is clean and his lips are minty fresh when I kiss them. The gun heavy in my pocket.

It's freedom and bliss as the McCarthys slowly lose money, jobs, and businesses. They're houses in foreclosure. Their close relatives filing for bankruptcy. Their sons and daughters are being rejected from Ivy League schools, or being taken in for sporadic DUIs and unpaid parking tickets. They're getting the easy way out. Some, who've hung out at bars eyeing Edward, Pete, and the gang—their rivalry—are snitched on and left to rot for life. They're in prison for narcotics or money laundering. All of this done in a span of time, little by little.

The McCarthy family is clearing out. And they're suffering.

I smile to myself. I stare up at my bedroom ceiling alone, at night, and think of all the ways Edward can change his uncle's mindset. Uncle Jasper is key. He listens. He accepts. He watches me even when I'm not speaking. He watches when I'm not the center of attention. He watches and I know he sees my mother.

With Mom's confession at the back of my mind, I can't look at him now. I can't decide if I should climb off Edward's lap, over the desk, and choke him until the life leaves him. But all I do is tremble when he gets close.

I hear my mother's words, and I feel shame.

I have a seat at the table, and I'm still sitting.

The adrenaline is addictive. Edward's look of pride even more so.

He loves on me, and he tells me how much. One sweeping hit with his hips, hands all over my legs, and he tells me I'm his. I'm needed. I'm wanted. I stare at darts in his ceiling right above him, and I've taken every girl's place in his life. I have a seat here, too. Right now his lap, as he breathes hard against my neck. This time for good.

My world has changed. Maybe it's upside down, but no one told me this upside down is all green grass, fresh air, and butterflies hovering in a constant rhythm. Rose color over a limitless sky. It's a whole new world the moment I accepted Edward's offer to be a part of this.

….

"Lock your arms," Edward says. I do. My arms quiver. I've been locking arms for twenty minutes now. "Lock your arms I said."

I grumble. "I am! I have been. Just give me a second."

Emmett chuckles from where he sits.

I drop my guard and let my arms swing about.

"I've told you, don't point it at your feet!" he yells again.

I gape. "Oh my God!" I look at Emmett. "Did I just point it at my feet?"

"No, you didn't point it at your feet," he replies.

I look at Edward. "Thank you!"

"You pointed it at _his_ feet," Emmett corrects.

I sigh. I did point it at Edward's feet.

"If I lose a toe because of this bullshit, I swear to you—"

I glare at him.

He flicks his wrist letting his pointed finger fall to his side. "Do it again."

Relenting, I lock my arms. I aim. I take the shot. Then I empty it out. The paper torso tears far away, one hole on the makeshift head for good measure.

I put the gun on the counter with a thump. The shit is heavy. I cross my arms over my chest and wait for their inspection.

Emmett leans over his shoulder to see. His lips quirk, and he's impressed. Edward is blank, but he blinks. He's impressed, too, I know it.

He looks at me up and down. "I didn't tell you to put the gun down."

Emmett's shoulders bob. I roll my eyes.

"I'm going home," I say. "I have homework and responsibilities." I make to leave, but Edward pulls me until I'm crushed to him. He kisses me.

He was definitely impressed.

"I'll drive you home."

Really, it means someone drives us home. There's always someone to get him places unless he's in his car. On days like these, per my insistence, he teaches me how to handle a knife or a gun, like today. Emmett is usually there to administer. Maybe he's Edward's bodyguard. I don't really know, but all I know is I never see Edward without someone hovering.

Usually, we sit in the back of the car, and he doesn't come up for air until I push him away when we're in front of my house. I'll give him one last kiss, and he'll watch me the entire way up my stoop.

But today, he's quiet. He's looking out the window, and I know something's up. The car stops at the front, and I stay where I am until he looks at me.

"You're not going out, are you?" I ask.

His brows knit like I'm overstepping.

"I'll go with you. I'll get ready."

He tilts his head a little. The audacity of my request, I guess.

"Bella, get out of my car," he says. And there's no arguing.

But I do the opposite of getting out.

He's said it before; gun lessons are as far as we go.

He didn't agree when I asked to learn. He refused. No girl of his was doing such things. No need. I made the argument that I could be in danger at any moment. I would need to be prepared. When I asked Emmett to help instead, Edward relented, handing me over his beloved pocket knife right then. Now I carry that in my bra.

I get out of the car after a few minutes of silence, but I know what I'll be doing tonight.

I shower. I slip on Edward's jacket with pockets full. I do a bit of homework, and all the while I'm taking peeks out the window.

At about midnight, I see the headlights of his Polara glow. I rush out as quietly as I can. I grab that door handle like it'll vanish between my fingers and hop inside.

He looks up alarmed. His hand instantly reaches for the console between us.

And then I figure this was a bad idea.

He relaxes, but not his expression.

"Get out of the car." I don't respond, and I don't move either. "I'll drag you out," he warns.

"Not this time," I say shaking my head. "If you're gonna go kill someone or fuck another girl, I'm gonna be there. I'll be lying right next to her if I have to; watching you make that face you always make. You haven't shown me what you do. What you really do. So, you will."

His nostrils flare. Then, after an excruciating pause, he pulls on the shift so hard I bet it will break on his next try.

He speeds through streets, and I'm in wonder thinking of myself in this front seat where other girls have been. I never thought I'd ever see this view. But I do, and it's surreal.

Wherever we're going, it's far away. The clock turns to one A.M., and I'm dozing a little. Sometimes he glances over, and I quickly straighten in my seat and compose myself.

It's been a long week with school and essays. I dare to wonder how he keeps up with all this. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe someone else does it for him.

Then, I feel his warm fingertips on my cheek, running to my lips. I realize my eyes aren't open. I blink awake and lean into him before he pulls away.

He stops down a desolate alley and parks by dumpsters. The shift makes it alive with a thrust. He pops open the door and says, "Let's go fuck."

I look up to see a blonde standing by an open doorway and my stomach plummets.

That was a joke. I was joking. Why wouldn't I think he'd be involved with other women, older, with more experience?

Jokes on me.

He doesn't wait up for me. I scramble out of the car, and my heart is thundering.

He's swallowed up by the entrance after she pecks a kiss on his cheek. She waits for me, as her eyes scan me.

I feel pathetic.

I run a few fingers through my hair and wish I'd wear something less … adolescent. There are tattoos under her snug T-shirt tied with a knot at her waist, peeking through her chest and spine. She wears her hair in big curls around hoop earrings, a tight pencil skirt, heels, and maroon red lips. Everything wraps around her curves.

My heart tightens, devastated. Jealousy grips me. It's so instant. Awful visions of Edward with a woman like this runs through my mind. Maybe that's reality, and I'm the domestic girlfriend who grounds him and plays the part in his epic lie.

I follow Edward and his … accomplice up some stairs under dim lights. We find ourselves in a lobby. We came in from the back. Some guys stand around the front doors smoking. Barely boys out of high school. They look alarmed as Edward walks by. One nods his way, Edward doesn't respond. We enter a shaky elevator and go up. I stand to the side as blondie smiles slyly at Edward and touches him.

She touches him.

She giggles and wipes her lipstick off his cheek. Her fingers curl around his jacket collar and tugs gently on his shirt beneath. He asks her about her day, how the new landlord gig feels, and how her husband is. The last question doesn't seem to faze her. She sashays here and there, flips her hair and answers as if sex oozes through words and I'm not five feet away.

"I've missed you," she whispers in a thick accent. And that just drills a hole through my chest. Edward looks up at her through his lashes.

"Forgive me. I'm rude. Did I introduce Bella, my girlfriend? We used to make mud pies together when we were wee little things," he says.

"Aw," she says with a laugh. "That's so sweet."

The doors open and she steps out. I go right after her. My fist balled up just picturing it; me pulling on that nest she has on her head.

Edward presses a hand on my chest like he knows. "Easy," he says. "You do what I say when I say it, and how. You hear me?" I see her over his shoulder, and she looks over hers with a grin.

He lifts my chin with a finger to get my eyes. "No scratching yet," he whispers. I push his hand away.

The hallways are too narrow as apartment after apartment doors line up. Some are open, music pouring out of one. The smell of garlic in the air probably seeping through the walls from last night's dinner. Not much activity outside the doors, but life is happening inside … loudly.

A young kid is sitting on the filthy floor, his face saggier than his backpack beside him. He looks up and lights up the same. This time, Edward nods his way. He inquires about his state. The boy mumbles a few words sheepishly. Their fists touch. Their conversation ends. Edward flips a palm up to expose a few bills.

"Don't tell her this time," Edward assures over his shoulder. The boy is all thankful eyes and a sigh of relief.

I have to catch up as I've fallen behind just to watch.

An apartment at the end of the hall is surrounded by men in black. Some look like they've been staking out in cop cars all night.

I glance at a badge on one, and maybe I'm right.

A brawny looking one steps forward and grasps Edward's hand for a hard shake. Pete stands behind him and nods. His eyes catch mine instantly. He takes me in and purses his lips.

"What have we got?" Edward says to everyone. He moves in through the apartment, and there are stacks of cash in plastic, segregated into groups on a kitchen table. I tilt my head to see around shoulders when he's suddenly out of view.

Pete pulls back. His redhead shaved down to speckles. Freckles line his nose under his green eyes. There's a slight twisted front tooth, making him look like any regular classmate trying to grow into himself. But his eyes are sunken in, his broad chest, height, and scar over his lip make him look beyond his years. I don't know what Bree sees in him. Repulsive.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asks.

"Same as you, dipshit," I answer back. "What's this?" I ask as nonchalantly as I can. I never give this guy the satisfaction of intimidation, but I'm quaking.

He gives me a dirty look. "A delivery, genius."

I scan the full table and furrow my brows. "It's … a lot. Was it a screw-up?"

"What do you think? It's why we're all here and not getting our beauty sleep. The culprit will pay."

I watch silently for a moment. Edward looks everything over. I don't know what he's looking for. He asks questions. I strain to listen.

I lean toward Pete. "In cash, though? Isn't that … messy?" I ask.

I turn to look, and everyone heard that. They glance back. The awkward pause gets Edward to turn, too.

 _Fuck._

Pete tenses beside me and steps a good foot away.

Asshole.

I'm in shades of red.

"Come on in," Edward says where he paces inside. I look around. I didn't quite hear, and everyone is staring at me.

Pete turns his eyes my way. He nods toward the apartment. "You're up."

My legs go jelly. My heart pounds, and all I hear is the whoosh of my heartbeats. But I square my shoulders and lift my chin. I pushed to be here. Now I am.

I step in as the crowd splits as if I'm Moses.

Blondie is by the sink smoking, with a fucking smirk on her face. I hate it, so I stand right by her. I stare daggers at her until Edward has to call on me.

He leans over the table, palms down.

"You've got ideas? Let's hear 'em."

I'm taken. Blood seems to drain my face and how could he push me into the spotlight like this?

I blink at him. He's waiting. Blondie is smiling. She says, "Mr. Cullen, maybe we should leave this to our associates who would think of a good plan, not a grade-school science project."

I look at her.

All I seem to feel now is the urge to cut.

"Actually, yes. I have ideas," I interrupt. "This looks bad. Real bad. Whoever did this is an armature. There's this new concept with technology, people transfer money all the time," I say sarcastically. "Paperless shipping. Less trees. Earth-friendly."

All we can hear is the faint thumps of base, music still playing somewhere.

Edward breathes in. "And how do you suppose we avoid any trace. It's how we've been doing things. It's how it's done."

I shrug. "Someone must know an accountant. I'm sure her _associates_ would know." I nudge an elbow at blondie who knows it all. She staggers a little. "Don't you have one?" I ask him, meaning the Cullens.

He doesn't respond. So, I keep talking.

"Hire a hacker who's willing and give him a cut," I add. Isn't this in movies?

I see the top of Pete's head over others moving around like he's pacing. Maybe cringing right now.

The Boss comes around the table. He aims for me. I tense. He leans in and kisses me. It's soft and slow. I flush all over when he comes in for a slow and deep one. My eyes drift closed.

"So what do you suppose we do with all this _mess_?" He asks when he pulls away.

Blondie is all arms crossed and peeved. I grin at him still close.

I look over his shoulder. All the idled men are pacing around, too, trying not to look.

"Well, you got cops. Corrupt ones. With cars, authority, and egos. I think they can figure something out temporarily."

He smirks. "Want to watch me make that face I always make?"

I grin.

"Let's get out of here," he says.

Blondie touches his shoulder to get in the last word. I get a good grip on her hair and yank hard. With a bang, she's lying on the table over stacks of bills, arm pinned behind her.

"You don't touch," I say to her screwed up face.

"You heard her," Edward says walking out. "No touching."

She's fallen under the table, scattering. "Fucking bitch!" she yells behind me.

I pass by Pete with a faint smirk on his face. I push him away, and he laughs.

I hear him behind me saying, "Someone take her out. She's fired." Blondie, the culprit, is now screaming.

….

I make my way down the stairs from Edward's, third-floor bedroom in the attic. My clothes a little askew, my hair quite a bit tousled. Edward behind me is slipping his belt into the loop to keep his too-relaxed jeans on—and my stomach plummets to the sole of my feet. They were tingling just a minute ago. I came over him like I never have after all morning stuck like glue on his bed, and he watched me make that face I always make.

There's this spark between us after my night out with him. I gained his trust. Maybe not the trust of my idea. Those, he keeps and makes with his uncles; they live by them. The Cullens have accountants. Plenty of them. They have everything they need. He just wanted to see where my head was.

I was shocked, maybe a little pissed. Everything is a lesson with him. Though, the hacker part he's willing to consider.

So, I came to him. I snuck out before the sun came up and snuck into his room on his fresh-start Sunday. Warm skin, nose pressed to his chest and hands everywhere. All those darts behind me as I took charge. It's a fresh-start Sunday for both of us.

I come down from the attic and run into _her._

Then the pain.

In my chest.

 _Alice._

I figure she came out of her mother's room. She stares at me.

She's been hiding. No one has seen or heard from her in weeks. She spends her time with her mother. She hasn't been to school. She hasn't contacted anyone. Neither Vick nor Bree ask about her anymore. I haven't seen her since she walked away from me at the funeral.

My stomach knots. I'm guilty of not reaching out. I hoped I wouldn't run into her, maybe never. Alice and my mother ground me from the bubble I've been in. I avoid being in their presence at all cost. Now, it's like she's seen all we've done in his room.

Our eyes seem to lock. I'm frozen by the stairs going down to the foyer where Edward went. Unbeknownst, he keeps moving. When I don't follow, he looks up from halfway down the grand staircase.

His gaze turns from me to his sister beyond the banister above him.

"Alice, go to your room," he says, an underlining of authority in his voice.

She ignores him. What sister wouldn't? Then again, what brother wouldn't bark an order? Her crazed state means she probably needs direction.

Her sunken eyes look deeper since I've seen her. Her hair grew, the edges unshapen, her complexion pale and dry. She wears the same dress and sweater the day I found her in her room. Feet bare, no manicured nails; chipped and plain. I drop my gaze to her fist, knowing that blade she keeps is probably tucked there, and my heart pounds.

"Hey. You okay?" I ask her. I wring my hands nervously.

I take a step closer when her eyes water. A single tear makes its way down her cheek. She doesn't blink.

My throat closes instantly. My eyes prickle, and I'm crying, too.

"I'm sorry," I beg. I shake my head. My face crumbles, and hers stays the same. She exudes this deeply unhinged demeanor. And my heart is a ton of bricks at all the grief of missing out and not being a friend when she needed one.

I look back at Edward who's yelling her name. He's red, pissed. The snarl on his lips boggles me. How could he treat her like this?

I lift a hand to him. "Wait," I snap. But his expression pales instantly. He tenses and moves to run up the stairs. He's not fast enough. It seems as if a wall crashes into me. I look, and Alice is screaming in my face. With another blow to my chest, I lose my footing and the floor beneath me. I tumble down the stairs. It's like trying to find the light in whirls and blurs. Everything rushes past and flips upside down. And maybe I've been in this upside down for far too long. I've been flipped back into reality. I can't find my bearings as I continue to fall.

Edward's legs stop me from reaching the bottom. He catches me just in time. My head mere inches from smacking onto the hard landing.

"Fuck," he murmurs, panic laced in his voice. He pushes my hair away to look at me.

He pulls me by my arms, secures me over the steps, and rushes past me like a bullet.

"Wait. Edward, wait!" I scream after him. He'll kill her. I crawl up, but it's no use. He's already advancing as Alice staggers back, fear in her eyes. The backhanded slap is sharp and loud against the apple of her cheek.

Then, again and again.

She shrills.

I make it to the top on my hands and knees in time to see her fall to her side.

"Leave her alone!" I yell when he bends over to shake her.

She cries and cries and writhes on the floor holding her face.

"Wake the fuck up, Alice. You could've killed her!"

"I'm fine. I'm okay, just leave her," I beg in the background.

"You're not the only one in this house, you spoiled shit. You and Mom; you're the victims now? What the fuck have you done but encourage her? You haven't done shit in this house! I'm fucking angry, too. But I'm standing!" He bangs a fist against his chest. "I could kill the fuckers who did this to us!" He yells. His voice breaks. He shuffles above her until he leans over his knees to breathe.

I'm frozen where I sit. I listen to her laments echoing down the hallways. I watch him, and I watch her; siblings mourning a loss, anger turning to numbness, surrendering to sadness. I cry, too, because they're my family. They're all I have and all I've known since we were kids. I'd follow them around, enchanted by their every move and mighty family name.

Alice slowly lets the anger go until she's completely silent. This heavy presence takes over all of us. The silence is deafening. My tears are endless.

I tense. Edward gets close to her. He hooks her legs and curls an arm around her back. He simply scoops her up.

She curls around him and buries her face on his shoulder. Maybe it's a truce, maybe a hug; either way, it's a quiet surrender for both. He slowly walks across the floor and takes her to their mother's bedroom where she spends her days with her.

He appears, closes the doors behind him, and swings my arm over his shoulder to help me up without a word. I hiss. My hip screams in pain, my neck the same. He looks at me, and I tightly say, "I'm fine." We slowly make it to the bottom floor where uncle Jasper and Major in his wheelchair look on.

I pull away from Edward's hold. I look at him. I look at him real hard.

He shakes his head. "You don't live with her, both of them," he says, as a way of justifying his actions.

I dig a finger in his chest hard enough to jolt him. "You ever touch her or me the way you did up there, I'll cut your fucking hand off. You got me?"

His nostrils flare with a breath.

"She needs you, not the back of your hand. They're all you have left. Take care of them, or I swear, you'll see your grave sooner than you'll ever see me again.

In all the time I've known him, he's never let his eyes flicker away in shame. He says nothing as Jasper opens the front door, helps me down the threshold, and lets me limp my way back home. I get a last glimpse of Major, and he's watching me.

From that day forward, Edward never hit anything out of anger.

He teaches me things, I teach him also.

…..

Alice and her mother packed their bags, and now Edward helps them into a car.

It's been more than a week. I'm not talking to him. It's nothing but dead silence between us, but I watch from the kitchen when he kisses his mother goodbye leaning over the car window.

I knew they'd go live with her family out of state. Alice used to tell me about her aunts and grandparents still living. If the Cullen family couldn't take care of them, the Brandons will.

Mom leans further into the counter watching, too. I know what she's thinking, and I really know she's hoping it's a fallout that'll stick. She's probably thanking the heavens she's seeing me around the house more and that Edward and I will finally call it quits. But she doesn't comment.

What she did comment on last week was the limp. I tried to hide it, but a hard tumble down stairs doesn't heal quickly. She'd watch me shuffle around the kitchen in the morning before school and again in the afternoon, until she couldn't take it anymore. She pulled me to the light and yanked on my pajama bottom. The bruise maroon and blue taking my hip, to my thigh, and a bit of my back. She gave me one good look, and I realized what was running through her mind.

"It was Alice," I said quickly. I told her about everything. I just left out why I was upstairs instead of downstairs like guests do. But she knows well I'm not a guest, I never was. And Alice has a temper like her father. "You know her," I said anxiously. "You have no idea what she does to girls he's dated before. It's just protocol."

She grabbed the keys to take me to the clinic. It was ridiculous. There wasn't a need for the tests, but whatever appeased her I went with. Later, her loving, forgiving, and understanding hands rubbed the prescribed, soothing balm all over my hip before bed. At least it got her in my room.

Her visits every night since our argument had stopped.

She hasn't been too friendly with me for a long time. She asks how school is, but never asks how I am. She tells me when dinner is ready, or asks if there's anything Dad needs from me; like covering for the receptionist at the shop. Even the communication between Dad and me have been snipped. He doesn't look at me straight in the eyes anymore.

I don't know how I feel about everything. Maybe time desensitized my level of caring. I was a mess in the beginning. I'd cry myself to sleep every night. Mom was distant. She even left to the city one weekend and left me behind.

Like she said; I'm a woman now, who should deal with my own mess.

I'm too busy to think beyond any of it now. It's keeping up with the Cullens and keeping up with finals, scholarships, and college applications.

I spend my days in my room or in the kitchen working on school work. Other days I'm in the shop, answering phones and dealing with the mechanics. Other than that, we're barely a functioning family.

"If it was Alice who pushed you, then why aren't you two talking?" Mom asks, watching Edward shut the car door on Alice's side as she and her mother are driven away. Edward climbs up the stoop and through the yard. He looks up toward our house for just an instant.

My stomach knots.

I sigh. I didn't tell her that part. I hoped she wouldn't ask. But there's one thing I never hold back from, and that's telling her everything when she does ask.

"He hit Alice."

She looks back at me. She waits.

"She wasn't in the right mind. She hasn't been. I already forgave her for pushing me," I explain.

"Then what?" she insists.

"Then, I told him if he ever tried that on me, or anyone else, I'd kill him myself."

Mom doesn't react. She watches me for a while. She would know her own daughter enough to recognize the seriousness in those words.

She backs away from the window and squeezes my arm.

That's the first time, in a long time, I feel she has my back. Because the gesture alone tells me she would help me hide his body if I did kill him; with a smile on her face, a jovial heart, and with weightless shoulders.

…..


	10. Chapter 10 - Blade

**A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I read them all and try to reply, but life! Okay, let me shut up before my laptop loses battery. Go read. More soon. Ending soon. Wet kisses from my nephew just now; I send the same to you. Hearts.**

* * *

 **Chapter 10 - Blade**

 **Young**

It almost feels as if we're back to that nonexistent relationship; the one where we orbit one another in a silent quarrel. I'm a spectator, watching his every move outside my windows.

At school, he watches me from afar, never getting close. Every time I do see him, I envision him hitting Alice or going berserk when we argue. I'm overwhelmed again with dread, horror, and disappointment.

If he doesn't hesitate with her, why would he with me?

I rarely see him, but I feel him.

I take the bus to Dad's shop to cover the receptionist shift and I know I'm followed. I get home from school, and it's the same feeling.

The moment I'm through the door the phone rings. It's usually Pete asking if I got home okay. I begrudgingly answer, or I don't, and hang up.

I go out. Vick and Bree are loud and place shots in front of me. "Bitch, stop being bitter and chug it. Now!" Vick yells over the music. Bree in stitches.

I roll my eyes. I give it a go. Why not? Down it goes. Six shots later I'm swaying on a couch, frown on my face, watching the girls jump around to the music. They pull me in. The room spins. I look around and know that VIP isn't for everyone. They see my face, now they give everything for free. I might as well have 'Cullen' carved on my forehead.

Who knew school associates could be so nice just to get the perks. They're so, so nice. No 'Don't mess with Bella' anymore. It's all smiles and compliments. Then Vick invites them all. The whole VIP section full of dumb school kids, most not school kids at all.

"Anything for Bella," as the club owner says upon arrival.

So, I do get anything … except peace.

I'm in a haze when I feel a breath on my face. He smells of beer and bad intentions. I can't keep my eyes from fluttering closed once in a while. He says things, the kind that would make any ditsy chic fall into his sweaty arms.

Well, not me. This party is solo. I've invited myself and no one else. It's brooding regret, sadness, and menstrual cramps. I tell him that.

"Sexy, isn't it?" I add. He's dark eyes and hair, and all wrong. He grins, with an underlining of confusion. But I guess he's nice. "Just me, this couch, only this piece," I motion around me. "That's it. Room for one." He scratches his head and crosses his arms, but remains on his side with his grin still intact.

I mean, why would he go for me? There are girls all around. Dresses shorter than my patience, and me; jeans and this large jacket I wear just for _him_. That makes me pissed. I pull it off and slap it on the floor between this guy and me.

He watches.

"Listen," I say leaning in. "It's not worth it, all right? Just go. You'll regret trying. Like, save yourself, and all that bullshit." I slur. I crawl back to my spot. I didn't really lean in, I guess, more like squished myself against his arm to yell in his ear.

He cringed.

I warned him. I cross my arms, too and wait it out. Like clockwork, some chump I don't know who works for the club grabs him by his elbow. Like every single time it happens the guy protests and struggles, confused, asking what he did wrong. Then he's thrown right out the back doors.

It doesn't fail.

Dark eyes are wide now looking back at me from over his shoulder, and he doesn't know. He just doesn't know a thing about me and this … mess. He's just a guy trying, giving it a shot, putting himself out there. Now he's like a trash bag out back, thrown out.

Vick looks and dies laughing. She's impressed now. She didn't know it would be like this. She loves it. Maybe even jealous. That eye she gives me. I see it. I keep her front and center and watch closely.

I look beyond her and Pete is making his way to us from below, by the dance floor. This is the first time he appears in situations like this. Bree kind of goes putty, or pees a little. I don't know. But it's obvious, and she purposely pulls back and gives him this dirty glare while nonchalantly leaning on a railing. Because the railing might flop over? It needs her support? I don't know.

Then I really see Pete through her eyes; tall and all black clothes, boots on his feet and this sharpness to his shoulders. I guess I see it, her fixation. He's no guy like the ones here trying. He doesn't need to try. He's a man and one who's seen a lot of dark shit in his life.

He glances my way like he's checking inventory of my every limb, to see if I'm in one piece. I stare him down. He turns to leave when his eyes catch Bree's from above him. They travel from her ripped stockings to her red lips.

And shit. He gives her a look like she's exactly that. He walks away to do … God knows what.

The poor girl takes it in, looks away like she just might throw up her entire drink.

I yell. She looks at me. "Wanna join me on this pity wagon?" I ask. I pat the couch. She comes over and places her head on my lap. Such a moment for a club scene.

"He wants someone who doesn't play around," is what she says to me. Like I asked.

I scoff.

"Someone not like him?" I laugh.

She shakes her head. "He's really not like that. It's because I've been doing it to him. It was this one time, with his cousin. I was so fucked up." She cries silently. "He's not the bad one. I am."

Really? I sigh and pat her bum. "Then shape up, Don Juana. Don't be like me. Find your happy ending."

What a fun bunch we are.

Slowly, like a time lapse, she does shape up. A week goes by, and her stockings have fewer holes, her makeup is less … well, less. She sits silently at lunch in a dress and a delicate locket around her neck. I wonder if she keeps his photo in there. Boots still adorn her feet; a girl's got to be herself. But she's soft now. Mauve lips and nails looking like a fifty's pin-up doll. She comes in on a Monday with a color I've never seen her wear—her natural born hair color. It's long and goes down to her waist. I never did notice how long she's kept it when it's not in a messy bun. She looks … brand new.

I don't say a thing. Vick just chews on her lunch and gives her a good once over. "What the fuck is up with you? Are your ovaries acting up again?" she asks curiously.

"Hey," I protest. I shake my head at Vick. She rolls her eyes as she sucks her teeth. Bree is the color of her new blush dress.

Well, at least someone is trying to change around here. We could all use a bit of maturity. I look at Edward across the way, watching, head back, leaning it against the wall where he sits. His gaze never leaving me.

Maturity. How true the word. I need to shape up, too. I don't know what I've become under his spell, but whatever it is, it isn't good.

Bree finds new, quiet peace, and a newfound interest in a book I lend. Pete lends his eyes, flickering her way. They linger more each day. I'd nudge her to tell her, but she seems to be on that good part of the book.

I let this express itself, and I let myself find new interests that aren't tied to Edward, just like Bree found hers in a book. I must find my blush dress, too.

….

"What's wrong?"

That's been the question all morning from everyone I run into.

I don't know how to answer that.

Mom asked. Bree asked. Even the science teacher.

I watch the dark clouds rumble out the windows in class making everything gray, slow, and quiet.

What _is_ wrong? Why did my windows at night glow with the lights from the Cullen house at three in the morning?

I was tossing and turning like I have been for weeks—Edward far away, me trying to keep away. But I noticed movement next door.

I peeked and witnessed chaos starting from Edward's room. The lights were on, he was pulling on a shirt and jeans. Emmett's silhouette was at the bedroom door waiting.

They left. The car revved and off they sped.

So, what _is_ wrong? I'm not quite sure. But there's a pit in my stomach that tells me _everything_ is wrong.

The next day he isn't there, nor the next. Still, he's not back. People quit asking me the question. I'm desperate inside. I don't know how to reach him and ask him that question myself.

A week, then a second one passes. I want to crawl at walls with anxiety.

Dad comes home one night, and his eyes say it all. There's news from the Brandon's house where Alice and her mother had gone to live. It was like a release for their mother, peace from the heartache, the pain, and the mourning. While she was there, just weeks, her heart gave out. The Cullen's had another funeral merely months after they had Senior's.

I was speechless for a day. There was nothing I could do.

When he was finally back, I saw a man simmered down to a boy who needed comfort.

He showed up at our door. Dad answered. I was in my Sunday, fresh-start sweater and PJs.

The morning sun cast a glow over his face. Edward was a softened, sobered gentleman with a sore heart. We stood there on the porch when his hand reached out. He ghosted a few fingers over the soft cotton of my sleep dress, right over my chest. Head down, eyes cast, not a word was uttered. He was pale. Eyes bloodshot with no sleep.

Just like for his father's funeral, he wore a suit, polished shoes, a silk tie around his neck that was loosened, as if he ripped at himself to catch a breath.

His thumb skimmed my cheek idly as tears brimmed his eyes. One escaped, and I took him in my arms with all my strength.

My condolences came in whispers by his ear as he shook in laments. I could barely hold him up. This was a punch. His mother; the unsung hero who kept him docile and whole. I couldn't even fill that vacant hole in him. This, he'd have to live with unhealed for the rest of his life.

We sat on my porch silently after I asked him the details. He answered through sniffs and sighs as he calmed and ran his fingers through my hand. He caught it and didn't let go. I never saw him like this. Maybe when we were kids, and definitely not when his uncles could see, even now. He hid behind the porch railings, our legs stretched out over the floorboards by the flower pots.

I watched him, with Mom out of view from the window watching, too. Both of us.

Then he stood, he pulled me up and curled an arm around me to ask like he always asks, "Bella, you love me?" Hope in his voice. I hugged him. "Don't leave me again," he added definitively.

Mom didn't react. She wouldn't have. Where she stood, the words were inaudible. But I heard them loud and clear as I leaned on his shoulder.

All she saw was his careful approach. Like a tamed lion running his mane at the shoulder of its lioness. His lashes batting at my temple as his lips skimmed. A nudge of foreheads and then a kiss of amends. The type of kiss she dreaded. The type that made her rest her head in her hand.

…..

He holds my hand now, everywhere we go. There's no secret in school, not that there was, but he wasn't showing it. He kept himself on his side, and I was on mine. Now he finds me in the hallways or waits for me after class and grabs on. I'm escorted to lunch as everyone passes by and watches, eyes full with questions.

In the morning, he waits for me up front by his car. That was the shift. That was how he cut the radio silence between us. He opens the passenger door as I step out of the front door and waits for me to hop in. Not without a lingering morning kiss.

I could feel Mom's anguish from the kitchen window.

Then there was that time, the first time lunch came around, and he pulled me through the doors. I swear I heard the loud murmur of a full lunchroom suddenly quiet when he kissed me. He was thorough, I was flickering lids, fully aware everyone was watching. Vick included. She stared up from her seat, sharp jaw.

I let my shoulders relax and closed my eyes.

When he pulled away, I cupped his chin. "What's all this? What are you getting at?"

He smirked slightly.

"Life's too short," he said with a peck on my lips.

I watched him go to his side of the room, knowing this was his way to cope—on account of me; the introvert hating center stage.

I hoped it would pass. But the hovering became overbearing. He was there all the time.

He'd knock on our door. Dad would always open, and he'd politely ask for me. I was pulled out by the hand, no jacket, not even prepared, and he'd help me in the back of a car to get food because he was hungry. I was in the middle of homework and the dishes.

Mom waited up for me and glared the entire way I went upstairs to my room. I didn't know what to do.

I'm here now, in my bed, my PJs on and staring up at my ceiling. No, I'm not alone. Edward managed to get through the front door, up the stairs, and into my room while Mom was still in the kitchen. The way he did that day he killed Joe.

He lies face down, sans shirt and shoes, over my pillow. He stripped them off the moment he came in. Not even a hello when he did. The covers were pulled down, and he crawled in. His lips touched my arm before he drifted off.

He sleeps. I don't. My nerves are spiked wondering when Mom will shimmy the knob and walk in to see this.

This is a phase, I tell myself.

Just a phase.

Morning comes. I slap the alarm clock before it even goes off. My eyes are burning. I awake, and he's curled around me. The heat coming off him has me with beads of sweat down my neck. I peel his arms away, his face off my tit. I shower and sneak back into my room hoping to God, Mom doesn't awake. Dad's already at work, and I breathe relief over that.

The only slight noises are the creaky wooden floors as I walk around. I'm in a towel and maneuvering some underwear underneath it. He silently watches me from the bed. He slowly blinks awake and leisurely rests his head on his hands. The covers sprawled around his legs. His abs ripple as he breathes and scratches his unruly hair.

His eyes flutter at my bare chest through the mirror. I ignore him as my jaw sharpens. I don't know why I'm angry. I've dreamed of waking up beside him and just having a lazy morning in my room. Now I'm sailing around it and my vanity to moisturize, powder, and grab clothes from the closet.

I hook on a bra, then my jeans, and he watches.

His hips buck slightly, his pants low to his hips, and he's hard, peeking up from his waistband.

I'm not turning around to face that. Not today not any time soon.

We haven't touched that way. Not the intense way we do and get carried away. Not since that day with Alice by the stairs, when she pushed me down them.

It's unspoken, but he knows it's not yet an option. It doesn't mean he doesn't try. I'm yanked as I'm walking by. I'm spread over him. I sigh, and I can't look into his eyes.

He wordlessly pulls on the hip of my jeans and looks at the yellowing skin where the dark bruise used to be. He rubs a hand there, up my back, and over the bra hook.

"Don't," I say through my teeth as he works it. He wraps his arms around me instead.

"So good," he whispers, nose buried in my neck. I seethe. "What's wrong, baby?" he asks muffled.

"What's _wrong_?" I say exasperated. I flail a hand around me as he waits. "This! You!"

He watches blankly.

I go off.

"What the fuck are you doing coming in here? You're doing this now, right under their noses?" I point at my door. "You take me out at night without even asking me, you kiss me in front of _everyone_ in school, you follow me, you do God knows what to guys at bars who _just talk to me?!_ "

He stares.

"You're insane! That's what's wrong!" I howl.

I pull away from him and scramble to stand.

"You know, I was worried. I worried to death when you suddenly left. You tell me nothing, and I'm sitting here wondering like an idiot. I get it. You're sad she died. I get you're just devastated and feel … lost," I say standing after slipping on socks.

"But you can't just come in here. You can't barge in like you own this place and do what you want!"

I push a T-shirt on and angrily brush out the knots in my hair.

"And the following, the shadowing? I can't fucking take it! Not everything is a fucking conspiracy with me. You're not the CIA!"

"Not a bad idea. I could hire one," he says with wonder.

I growl. My brush goes crashing on my vanity.

"Get out," I say.

He sighs and sits up. "Baby …"

I point at him. "Don't you dare even try it!" I interrupt. "You know what? Stay. Have your breakfast. You know where everything is. My house, your house. Do what you want. You do it anyway." I grab my jacket and backpack and open my bedroom door. "You can explain to my mother yourself why your ass is in this house!"

I stomp down the stairs, and Mom is already there by the railing staring up, hand on a hip.

"Bella!" he shouts. He takes two steps at a time after me.

Mom moves in front of him and crosses her arms. He tries to go around her, but she advances.

He lifts a hand. "Ma'am, I mean no disrespect, even my presence here, but I'd care for you to step aside. This is not about you."

"You could be the Prince of Persia or the fucking president of the United States, whoever the hell you think you are, but in my house, you're nothing but in _my_ way and most certainly unwelcome."

He looks over her toward me. "You have no idea who I need to push out of the way to keep you safe. That's why I do it. You need to understand …"

Mom pushes at his bare chest when he takes a step. His back hits the wall by the stairs, the same one she pushed me against once. And I regret this. This is what she meant. I'm horrified. I could scream and cry.

He shows his palms. "Ma'am, please," he says with suppressed anger.

"You stay right where I can see you."

"Mom, leave it. It's not worth it." Fear crawls up my gut. This is too much.

He takes a breath and calmly speaks. "You have no idea what I have to do to keep all of you safe. Your little house," he says waving a hand. "Your car, your husband, all of it," he says to Mom. "You know this," he says pointedly.

"You have nothing to do with us!" she yells.

He nods. "Yes. You know this very well, Renee."

The slap is hard and loud. His face turns with the blow. She hits him again. And he stands there and takes it. "You little shit!" she spits. He doesn't say a word, but he smolders.

My jaw drops and I've never seen her this way, never have I been behind a blow like she delivered. I'm all balled fists, mortified. She pushes and pushes him. He just stares at her in complete submission, squared shoulders and unwavering.

"I would like to drive your daughter to school. Please, let me do that," he says. Blood slowly pebbles at his lip.

"The hell you will!" she yells. She pushes at him when he dares to move.

"I'm leaving," I say grabbing the door.

He shakes his head, eyes dark through his lashes. "Not without me."

"Edward, stop this," I beg. "I just need one day of peace. That's all."

"You know I can't do that," he replies.

Mom pushes him again. His patience is wavering, but he stands still.

"Mom, please! I'm sorry. Just let it go." I dare to pull on her shoulder, but she's raging.

"You think you own us? You think you can do whatever the hell you want? Well, you got something coming. You mess with my daughter, you mess with me!"

I pull and pull her as she pushes and pushes him.

"You don't know who I am!" she shouts. "I'll tear you limb from limb with my bare hands, you child! A _fucking_ child! Your mother gone, died of a broken heart, and look at you. You should be ashamed!"

He sidesteps her. His eyes downcast at her words. All he does is lift a hand toward me to take.

Mom slaps it away.

"That poor woman," she says. "You all killed her!"

"Mom." I cry. I hold my ears shut. I scramble to her side not knowing what to do. I hold her arms, and she pushes me away.

"Don't you dare hold me back. I'm gonna kill this motherfucker today!"

I sob over my knuckles ... I created this.

"You don't know me. You don't know who I am!" She jabs at his chest. His jaw is sharp to cut. "I have ways inside that house of yours. I've planned it for years. That's what I've got—years! You've got nothing but your arrogance, barely coming out of diapers. I watched your mother bathe you! I could kill you in your sleep, that's how much I know _you_. Don't think I haven't planned it all! And when I do, I'll find every last living relative of yours and kill them all!" She enunciates.

And right by the kitchen, behind a cupboard, she pulls out a gun I never knew she stashed. My stomach plummets. Blood seems to drain out of me.

Edward's eyes go sharp.

I grab his hand and pull. His focus now is that metal.

"Mom, please!" I step between them. Edward is motionless now.

"Do it," he says suddenly. His chest rises and falls, but his eyes are determined, shadowed. "Take me out of my misery," he says. His throat bobs, he stands arms slightly spread as he beckons.

I look up at him baffled. He's honest.

That makes her hesitate. She, too, stares into his serious eyes.

"It would be perfect," he whispers to himself.

"No! Let's go. Take me to school. Come on," I plead. I grab his stuff by the stairs and push him out the door.

He staggers over the threshold, and still, he watches her. This game between them now, and he seems to want it, beg for it.

He leans toward her from above me. "That's it, isn't it?" he says. "My mother told you something once. I know she did. So do it, Renee. Finish it," he challenges. Her hand trembles around the metal.

Just then, Uncle Jasper steps out of a car across the lawn. He watches the scuffle; Mom pointing a gun at his half-dressed nephew.

He runs.

"Fuck." I cry. More added to this madness.

I pull and pull on Edward, but he's dead weight. He begs and begs her to do it.

"Pull the trigger," he instigates.

Jasper steps between them.

"What did you do?" he howls at Edward. He turns to Mom. "What did the boy do? I'll set him straight for you, Renee. Tell me." He tries to reason with her.

The moment she sees him her eyes darken. He catches her arm and curls his around her robe. He talks in her ear and tears fall down her cheeks.

"Think of Elizabeth. She wouldn't want this," he says. "She'd want you to watch her boy while she's gone. She'd want you to keep him safe, wouldn't she?"

"This boy is nothing but a disease! I'll kill him, I'll kill him if he doesn't get off my lawn!" she answers.

"You heard her, get off her lawn!" Jasper growls waving an arm. "Go!" He grabs hold of her trembling, suspended hand, gun in the air. He sides with her, breathing calming words in her ear.

Edward is silent now. I barely get him down the steps to the sidewalk, and he stumbles as he keeps his eyes on her.

I push him into the back seat of the car Jasper hopped out of. The driver is still behind the wheel. We speed off. I leave my mother behind, still in Jasper's arms.

…..

Tears pour out like rain, and the sky outside is clear and pure blue. I can't hold back. I'm devastated, I can hardly breathe. Edward sits next to me, no shoes or shirt as he stares out the window, watching the street lights and signs passing by. School buses make their rounds and life goes on.

I'd like it to stop—my heart.

The driver pulls up to a sidewalk close to the school, but we don't move. He steps out. I watch as the lighter burns the tip of his cigarette.

"You ask me, every time," I speak up. "And my answer has always been the same. I do love you. I'm deathly in love with you. I always have been. But this ends here."

"I won't lose you, too," he utters not looking at me.

I grab the door handle, he grabs me. He catches my lips with such agony.

"Don't," he pleads. His eyes desperate. His hold tight around my shirt. I pull each finger away.

I cry. "I'm sorry."

I rush out of there as if he'll chase after me.

Bree sees me. She makes her way to my side. One glance his way and she knows. She watches me all day with furrowed brows, but she never asks. No need, this was destined to end this way.

"I think you should go home," she offers by lunchtime. I don't think I've stopped crying all morning.

Mom. Alone. I left her behind. My stomach churns just thinking of it. I grab my things and walk home. And for once I don't feel the weight of watchful eyes.

When I enter the house, Jasper sits in the living room.

"Get out," I order.

He straightens, hunched over on the sofa. He's taken aback. I hold the door open. He compiles, but pauses at my side. He works up to tell me words I don't care to hear. He keeps them to himself. I slam the door shut when he steps out.

I search for her. I melt on my knees, blurred eyes, once I see her sitting by her vanity. The room is dark, saturated with her delicate perfume, and I love her now like I never have. She defended me. She almost killed for me.

"I'm so sorry," I staggeringly say.

She's silent. Her reflection is all she looks at.

"Mom?" I try. I touch her arm. Her eyes close and a tear runs down. "You were right. I'm sorry, all right?"

She shakes her head. "I don't want that man in my house."

I glance at the door. "He's … he's not here. I told him to leave."

I dare ask, breaking the silence.

"Where did you get it, the gun?" I shake my head. "Mom, this is crazy."

"Is it?" she says with a look. "It never did seem crazy to me. It's always been about surviving."

I'm silent.

"My priority was always to protect you, you hear me?" I nod.

"Is it the only one?" I mean the gun. She doesn't answer. "More?" I swallow thickly.

She looks at me square in the eyes. "Baby, they're all over this house. Your grandfather's shotgun is tucked under the sofa."

My eyes widen.

"But, why?" I barely whisper. She gives me a pointed look. "Why didn't you tell me?" I ask hysterically.

She takes a deep breath and says, "Not even your father knows. Just Elizabeth."

I'm dumbfounded. Edward's mother? I always knew she was desperate to be freed. But Mom and her, a bond?

"Who _are_ you?" I ask overwhelmed.

She jabs a finger at my face. "Your mother who is fed up and taking all damn precautions, that's who!"

I almost show my palms the way Edward did.

She flicks her hair over her shoulder. "You know what this means now, don't you?" She tears her eyes away from the mirror to stare at another likeness to hers. "You must leave."

I don't know what to say.

"I won't take no for an answer, you hear me?"

My shoulders drop. "But, go where?"

She sniffs, wipes her cheeks, and runs her fingers through her hair. "Your grandmother's. They already know. It's all set up."

I sink back on my heels. "But … what about school? Mom, I can't leave."

"You will. This is not an argument."

"No," I say abruptly. She looks at me as if I've gone mad. "I mean … I can't leave now. Edward …"

"Will have to live without you. That's it." She leans in. "I'll rip you two apart with my bare hands if that's what it takes."

I blink up at her fury.

Hours seem to pass. We sit there in the dark, and the sun casts shadows through the splits of curtains.

Silently, we go through the plans. I can see them in her eyes. I try to figure out how I'll tell the ones I care about. Then I realize, there's no one. Maybe Ben, Bree? Not even Vick. She wouldn't care. She'd celebrate. I have no connections that matter here. None but Edward. My heart grows heavy. I could disappear, and no one would ever notice.

"Give me until the weekend," I say.

She hears the conviction in my words. She doesn't argue. I stand and head to my room. I grab that duffle bag I've kept for reasons I don't know and dump things inside.

She makes dinner. I can smell it. I could laugh at the absurdity. All the chaos this morning and she goes on with her day. I guess this is her level of normal. Secrets, hiding, all woven into her day-to-day tasks. I suddenly feel utter sadness. All these years and she's just been coping, not living.

I peek at her from the kitchen entry. I look at that part of the cupboard and definitely see that metal edge I never noticed. Fully loaded. Ready to do what it does.

I hug her from behind. She hesitates but holds my forearm to her.

"I'm late. Dad will wonder," I say muffled on her shoulder.

"Oh," she says. "I forgot you have to cover for the receptionist." She sighs. "I didn't want you to leave tonight."

"Dad will have five hundred questions."

She sighs again. "I'll drive you."

"You'll have to tell him things eventually," I point out.

She turns off the stove, grabs her keys, and heads for the door. "I will."

The blissfully, ignorant guy smiles in surprise when he sees her. Dad steps out of the shop, the large garage door is up revealing all the shiny new lifts, tool cabinets, and equipment lining the walls. Cars in different level of heights are parked inside being work on and repaired. The floors are filthy, but that's as far as grease goes in this place.

Dad has done more than well for himself. His beautiful wife included. He leans into the car, through her open window, and kisses her. I know he'll ask why she's been crying. I know she'll probably tell him it was the onions.

I want to shake him. Yell at him to wake up. But all I do is sit behind the desk and pile up paperwork and organize them by payments and date. Heidi's work is suffering. But it's definitely her sleep-deprived, new mom stage. Postpartum is a real thing, Mom explained. So, I do the work and tell no one about the mess.

I watch as Dad hops into the passenger seat, leaving his car behind. He decides to head home. It's almost his time anyway. I glare from my spot behind the windows. He just smiles and waves.

Awesome.

"Hey gorgeous," says Harry from the entry. I grumble. The bane of my existence. He's the one here who gets _too_ friendly when Dad isn't around.

Seth whistles from afar, and Harry is distracted. Thank Christ. Seth winks at me from where he stands. Saved by The Seth like always. I wave. He's always watching out for me. The problem is, his shift is almost up, too. That would make Harry and John stay back until nine p.m.

John is a slacker. He's young and cares only for beers and stepping out to grab dinner for an hour and a half on these nights. That leaves Harry hanging out alone in the shop.

Best day of my life continues.

I pray he slacks tonight, too and disappears the way he sometimes does. How the fuck does Heidi deal with this? I make a point to tell Dad to hire another receptionist for these late hours, and a male one at that. No woman should be exposed to this bullshit.

The garage door slams shut. I look up. I guess my luck has turned for the best. They both aren't around at their workstations. I tap a few more bills into the system and sigh with relief. I'm done with that, so I might as well organize the supply cabinet out back and put away the new ones that arrived.

The lights are on and beaming brightly on all the shiny, clean cars. It always smells of grease and gasoline, but I'm so used to being around it since I was a kid ... it's the smell of home.

The problem is, the door doesn't usually shut. Only when the shop closes. I realize this as I'm reaching up to place a roll of electrical tape on a shelf. My arms stay suspended as I think of the last time this has happened.

Never.

The echo of boots slowly making their way across the shop are imminent. So is the pounding of my heart.

I tense; spine to the tip of my toes.

 _Think._

Metal in abundance around here. I scan my area.

I reach for that piece of exhaust pipe leaning by the shelf, placed there by a sloppy mechanic who's made my speeding heart skip with hope.

If my mother has been fearless for years, I could be fearless for a moment. My speeding heart tells me I'll have to be more than that now.

I turn my head and nonchalantly say, "Harry, stop fucking around. I'll tell Charlie." But my fist is finding purchase on the narrow end of the pipe at my side. A good death grip for the swing.

Whoever it is, stops dead center behind me. "Harry stepped out for the night," the voice says.

I turn. I don't know who he is. He looks calm. I play along. I grab the box, slip the pipe inside of it and walk to the office. "What, you're his parole officer?"

He chuckles. He looks around and takes the strides to the office alongside me. His hands visible, empty. He stuffs them in his pants pockets.

"No."

"So then you must need an oil change," I suggest. He stays at the door to the office. He acts bashful.

"Ah, something like that." He looks up at me with a grin.

He turns, and someone else is out there. He nods briefly. My stomach whirls. I try to calm my breathing.

"It's actually my buddy here," he says pointing over his shoulder. "Bad night at a bar. You know how it is."

"I don't, actually. Please keep your feet outside my office." I point out. He looks down and adjusts his toes just behind the line. He smiles this time.

I grab the receiver from the desk. "Have to call in for backup since Harry _left_ for the night," I say. "You know how it is."

He chuckles again. He's dirty blonde, cut short, scars of puberty on his face, but he's in his twenties. He occupies himself talking loudly to his _buddy_ outside. I hurry to punch in the house phone. My hands trembling.

It rings and rings and nothing. "Fuck." I look up, and he's watching. His smile is still intact, but his eyes have darkened where he leans at the door.

I punch Edward's house number next. I haven't had to call it for years, maybe since elementary school, and I don't know how I remember it. Adrenaline surges through me.

" _Cullen_ ," says a voice on the other end. Then the call is dropped. The door is vacant now, and the receiver is plugged with an index finger.

The dirty blonde tisks at the end of the desk. "You're only allowed one," he says waving said finger.

He snatches my arm. I swing with the other.

The bang is loud against his temple. The pipe barely stays in my hand. I grip and lift it. One hit, two. By the third, I'm jostled. My legs leave the floor. I'm pulled over the desk from behind. Papers shift, supplies and the phone fall to the floor.

I kick. I scream.

I take hold of a head of hair from behind me, but I can't slip out of the tight hold.

 _Think_.

I curl my legs and push hard against the desk. We go tumbling to the floor. A grunt behind me. I scurry off him. He's the _buddy_ from outside.

His knee pops up. My jaw is fire. The blow to my face was sloppy but sharp. I tumble over his legs. I blink.

The pipe. I see it. A blur through the pain.

I crawl to it. My fingers just shy of reaching it when he pulls my hair back. The yank is so hard I find my footing.

"Not gonna happen," he says, a heavy warm breath by my ear. I pant, and pant and a cry makes it out of my chest.

 _Think._

I suck up all the fear and think of my mother. Her furious eyes. The barrel of the gun in her hand. I think of Edward's chokehold that one time in middle school when he did the same. Showing me, teaching me to have the guts.

Rage swells through my every bone. He pins me to him, and Dirty Blonde is the coward who comes at me.

 _Bella, anything._

 _Use anything._

I grab Buddy's head from above and lift my legs. I grunt loudly with the kick. Dirty Blonde's mouth bursts open. Blood spews. He lands on the desk chest first.

I twist around, but I'm cemented. A snarl is loud by my cheek. I turn my head and bite down on his ear.

A guttural growl vibrates against my back. But as soon as I yank my mouth away, I get a blow to my stomach, then my face. I double over and fall to the floor. Pain like I've never felt before surges its way through my skull.

I'm trying to find my breath when a kick delves into my side.

I gasp for air. My lungs burn.

"Fuck!" Buddy shouts. The other looks over his shoulder from above me. Blood is trickling down Buddy's neck from his ear. He frantically palms it and looks down at his hand, only to find blood and half an ear. I spit out the rest.

With trembling hands, I search inside my bra and pull it out. One click, and its long and sharp in my palm.

I drive Edward's blade right into Dirty's thigh and twist. His leg goes limp. That knee touches the floor, and we're face to face. His mouth is gaping as he looks. I drive it through his cheek next. Edward's blade fills his mouth copiously, slicing over his tongue.

Buddy's eyes grow wide. He stumbles back. And that pipe rolls fortuitously toward me with a kick of his boot.

I get a good grip.

The pipe steadily connects to that mangled ear. He goes silent with the pain, eyes rolling up into his sockets. So I turn on the other, and he's writhing and holding his split cheek. I don't stop until my arms burn.

The last swing sends me to the floor, spent and heaving. I crawl over, grab Edward's blade, and pull it out.

It's like he's here with me.

The last split goes around Buddy's neck who begins to stir. It's clean and precise, below where his ear used to be.

The gurgling noises coming out of him are soft. I walk out of the office, and I don't hear them anymore.

I clean the blade off with Harry's grease cloth. I wait as the heavy garage door slowly rises and unlock Dad's Firebird left up front.

I slide in, rev the engine, and drive toward home.

….


	11. Chapter 11 - Roses

**A/N: I'm back. It's been a tough few months in RL, but this is my happy place. Lots here, read carefully. Send questions, I love to answer. Go read. Hearts for staying with me and following still. xoxo**

 **Special thanks to Frannie for her edits and helping out. Love seeing my inbox with her surprises and her questions in scripts. Especially the time she asked what I smoke. Which was a legit question, that I can happily answer nothing, just my personal high. Hearts to you, lady.**

* * *

 **Chapter 11 - Roses**

 **Young**

Blood in my mouth. It's mine. It isn't. I don't know whose it is. My hands shake. I grip the steering wheel.

I swallow and let the salt slide down my throat. The house is down the block. The sun is still trying to set, falling asleep, making the sky, fiery red.

The wheels screech to a stop, crawling up the lawn. Mom's rose bushes get mangled beneath. I cough. The red comes up. Speckles sprinkle over my hands and the window.

I watch the dots. I wipe them down with a sleeve. It just makes it worse.

Dad will kill me.

I climb out, and maybe my shirt will clear it up. I wipe down more with it.

I'm tired. I let my shirt fall back around my torso, and then realize there's pain there. My knee buckles and I struggle to get back up. The heavy door to the car closes in on me.

I cough. I spit.

The grass isn't green; it's blood red.

Then lights go on. The glow comes from the Cullen house and the kitchen from home. Then the porch.

"Bella?" Mom.

I look up, and Mom is running. Her eyes are wide. Edward's are too. He's at his front door, and I turn my eyes to him across the lawn. He's not mine anymore. I gave him up, but right now, he doesn't give up on me. He charges forward, hops over his porch, over bushes with a leap. He calls me, and he's devastated.

I roll my eyes. Maybe they roll on their own. Maybe things go black for a split second. All I know is he'll be so overbearing. I manage to stand and close the car door.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I say when she's close. The fender was driven through bricks of this stupid little fountain she keeps on the lawn with flowers around it. I sniff and wipe at my lips. And that metal, that blade, Edward's, is still in my hand.

I lift it. I stare. Red all over, sticky wet.

"I … um. I made a mess," I murmur to her.

Mom is all arms raised toward me. She's speechless, quaking. She's slowly stepping up to me, and her hands grip my shoulders. Edward takes over and pulls me, and he's looking and looking.

Then Mom is shouting. She pushes him away.

"Don't you touch her!" she says.

I lift a hand to him. "I took care of it," I say.

He's just dumbfounded. He maneuvers around Mom and lifts my shirt to see if it's my blood. He turns my face to look at my jaw. He swipes the blood off my lips with a thumb.

"What in Christ happened? Who did this?" Mom shouts.

Edward is quiet, but he's asking himself the same things. His jaw goes sharp.

I watch him. Blood drains his face, pale. Utter grief. I frown slightly and shake my head. "I took care of it. I'm fine," I repeat.

Then I cough and the blood coming up betrays me. I'm keeping cool, but it's not happening. The lawn goes sideways, and my head is soon on a roller coaster. I squeeze my eyes shut and command my vision to straighten, but I stagger.

Edward catches me. I push his arms away. "I took care of it," I say again. Mom cries. She's banging her fists against Edward's chest telling him things. Spewing the fault all on him.

But I catch those eyes. Just over Edward's shoulder is that man, the one in the wheelchair. He watches on from the porch, rolled out, as Jasper looks on from their lawn. But I see it; the old man's slight mischief, the gleam in his eyes, the shift in those old wrinkled lips. Major grins at me from his wheelchair.

I point this blade right at him. I nod to myself. Edward catches the hand, and he takes the blade back.

He steps away; from Mom, from me. One look at me, one decision made. Fire blazes at his shoulders.

He's going to kill tonight.

I watch him hop into his car, and he's off to see what I've done. Of course, he knows where I've been, but he left me alone today, upon my request.

Jasper yells for him. He curses and yells for Emmett inside. That one goes off running after Edward. What's left is that grin. That knowing grin. Major is getting a front row seat to this show he orchestrated.

Then Dad runs out. He looks at the mess. The car is tilted oddly, bricks and roses mangled beneath it.

I give him one good look and say, "You'll need to clean up the office. You'll need to hire a new receptionist. I quit."

Horror strikes his features. Regret. Tears brim as he takes this all in.

"Renee, take her inside," he says. And he's finally woken; the man of the house. He revs the engine, and the wheels turn the grass beneath them. Angry whirls try to free themselves until the wheels grip. He backs up into the street leaving all the crumpled remains behind. I've never heard Dad screech the wheels of the Firebird before.

It took blood to set fire under his feet. Mine seems to drain right out of me.

I can't stand.

Everything goes black.

…

I open my eyes and fluorescence beams down on me, so do worried faces in my periphery. Mom's, Dad's, even Bree sits here to stare at me.

I don't speak, not until a cop steps in and has everyone step out. Then, I have no choice but to. I tell the story. He tells me how brave I was and that I was lucky. I don't say anything to that. This has nothing to do with luck. This has to do with elimination.

Dad is fuming all day. Harry is fired, and now they question his loyalty, his involvement. They try to find him, but he's gone. I know why. I know who made him disappear, because Edward has also disappeared. But most importantly, I know who planned all this. That gleam in Major's eyes still lingers when I close mine.

Everyone has something to say but not to my face. They stand outside my hospital room, door slightly ajar, and I hear what they say. Mom's tears are endless. She said, "I told you, Bella. I told you it would be like this." She cries and cries from the rage she feels. When she's not doing that, she's outside the door talking about me, arguing with Dad and threatening him about taking me away for good.

Bree squeezes my hand. I turn my head enough to keep the pain at bay. Hemorrhaging inside. Broken rib. Broken nose. Black eye. 'You're lucky. You're very lucky,' doctors said. They always say how lucky, and I surely know I'm not.

I'm crawling out of my skin, thinking of Edward's grandfather. Why would he do this and keep it from him and his own sons? There's more there. There's so much more. I have to find out. All I know is he wants me gone, or he wanted to send a message. I fume and fume, all alone in bed as people mill about, not knowing what eats at me inside.

"I'm sorry," Bree says. I look at her, and she looks honest.

"Because you did it and planned it all?" I snarkily ask.

She rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean, asshole." I give her the best, lopsided smirk I can muster. I squeeze her hand back.

"Now they'll just … freak and won't let me breathe," I tell her about Mom and Dad.

She looks over at the door and knows what I mean. "I think that ship sailed. But you're eighteen, so, yeah," she says like that'll fix things.

I'd laugh if it didn't hurt so much. Like my age matters. Mom will glue me to her hip for the rest of her life.

Bree grins. "Spoiled brat. At least you have parents who give a shit." That's a very valid point that guilts me. Bree, Vick, Pete, all the high school kids, and even Edward all derive from varied dysfunctional families.

They care. Yes, they do. So, I'll give my mother what she's yearned for the longest. I'll move to Chicago and go by her rules for a change. It'll be better than any rules I've adjusted to recently. All my bad decisions rolled into this single moment.

"So …" Bree begins.

"Don't," I interrupt. I know what she's been itching to ask all day since she came in.

Her shoulders visibly drop. "Oh, come on," she whisper-shouts. "You killed two grown-ass men, practically with your bare hands. Like, who the fuck are you?"

I sigh. "A very scared human with a knife. That's all it was."

"And with a pipe, for crying out loud. I heard the place was a bloodbath. Fuck, 'Don't' mess with Bella' is right," she repeats the mantra.

My eyes flicker over to her. "I'm leaving. I'm not coming back," I tell her. Her face crumbles, but she knows it's inevitable.

"Just when I was beginning to tolerate your skinny ass." Her mouth turns up. She sits back in her chair and huffs. "What will you tell Edward?"

I think about this.

"I won't," I say. I can't. His look alone will keep me here, stuck; bolted down at his beck and call. "Tell Vick he's all hers." A pregnant pause. I finally smirk at her. Bree snorts and laughs.

Then, she tenses. She grows quiet. A knock at the open door. A throat clears.

Pete walks in. The hallway outside is vacant. Dad and Mom probably moved to the lobby to yell some more. Pete pushes the door all the way open, and like a quiet mouse, he slowly sneaks in. His eyes on Bree. I do sense him hesitate when he spots her, but he works his way to my side. He moves his gaze from my toes to my black eye, and he says nothing. His fingers gingerly glide over the back of my hand. He pulls away.

"You look like shit," he says. I take a long breath that hurts.

"You should see the other guys," Bree challenges. He grins. Bree relaxes in her chair; the exchange light. I roll my eyes at her comment.

"I always knew it. Tough girl," Pete whispers.

Emotion gets caught in my throat, and it burns. My eyes follow. Fear, anxiety, and anger drain down my temples. Bree stands and holds me together. Pete flicks at a tear with a knuckle. I try to breathe.

"We're working on it, Bella," he says, the insinuation there; the hunt, the revenge.

I shake my head. "No. I didn't ask for that." Pete takes a long pull of air, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and looks out the window.

"Not your call."

I glare at him. I'd ask where Edward went, but what's the point? I gave him up. He'll do what he wants no matter my thoughts.

He makes to leave, but gets a good look at me. "I just came by to see how you were. I'll keep in touch." He pauses, hesitant. "We don't want you to be alone, not for a second. Please."

I sigh. "Is that what he wants? Did he send you to say that?" Pete doesn't react. "Tell him I don't need babysitters. I can take care of myself. And please, tell him not to come." I close my eyes to shut out everyone. If I could, I'd run away right now. Mom at my side, Chicago's 'Welcome' sign in our horizon.

It's silent. Not a joint of a limb groans, not a rustle of fabric, but I can feel Bree's hand perspire. She's nervous, shook, or something. Who cares. I'm tired.

I hear Pete finally move toward the door. "How did you get here?" he asks Bree. His tone reprimanding.

"Oh. I just … the bus," she stammers.

"I'll take you home," he says. "I don't want you out alone." And she's fumbling to speak and stand, all at the same time. I feel her hand leave mine to grab her jacket and cover her bare shoulders. Her tank top under overalls and Marten boots in apple red on her feet. That delicate locket still hangs around her neck, and I feel it, dancing over me, as she leans in to press her lips to my cheek.

"I'll be back tomorrow. I promise. Sleep."

I take a peek and watch them leave through wet lashes. His palm gently at the small of her back. And just when the door closes in, he cradles her hand. She stares longingly up at him and follows.

Their blooming happiness, forgiveness, and a love I'll never have, walk out of this sorrowful room.

….

It's dark. The moon sets a glow in the room. Mom is fast asleep on the cot. I watch her when I wake. It took hours for her to finally let it all rest. She's antsy, angry. It radiates, making me suffocate. I go from feeling rage to feeling like we'll never find a way to get out of this hole. Crawling out of this seems impossible.

I struggle to sit. The bathroom a mile away at this point. I swing my legs off the bed, toes to the cold floor. A warm hand catches my elbow.

I startle, looking up.

Edward wordlessly moves to my side and holds me up. I pull away from him. I'm sure as fuck not an invalid, but my head seems to spin without stopping. He insists and holds me close. We reach the bathroom door where he leads me in and gives me space to be. Inside, behind the door, there's my pounding heart.

Maybe I should make noise to wake Mom. She'll have him pushed out in seconds. But his expression when I open the door makes me hold my breath.

He steps in and closes the door behind him. This small bathroom is now crowded.

His lips hover just above my forehead. He leans in, and I move away. He's patient. His hands warm my hips, but nothing else.

Then he's pulling at my hospital gown from the back. He unties the knot and unwraps me to see the beginnings of the dark bruises. The mirror behind me. His eyes there. His fingertips graze skin to feel, as if bruises have thorns or scales. His jaw settles on a firm bite.

I feel his steady breath against my neck as he maneuvers me here or there. My front. My sides. Gauze secures my bare torso. His touch finishes at my cheek.

"I will never forgive myself for letting this happen," he whispers. His mouth dips to my shoulder.

"Where were you? What did you do?" I ask sternly.

He sighs. His hands work on the gown to wrap me back up, but he doesn't speak.

"Where's Harry?" I try again.

He ties the knot and kisses my nape there. Chills make their way down my spine. It warms all of me.

I push him away. "Where is he?"

"I'm so fucking proud of you, you know that?" he continues, not listening. "I got there. I saw them. And I'm so proud."

"That's nothing to be proud of. I killed. I killed two human beings!" Tears slip down my cheeks.

His shakes his head. "You survived. That's what you did."

A sob makes its way up my chest, and it hurts every way. "I can still feel them, hear them," I say.

He nods along and holds a palm to my heart. I finally let it out. The shock and fear. I bury my face against his chest and let go.

How do I even begin to say what I saw, what is just taking up residence behind my lids, my pounding heart? This is so layered, and I have to figure it out. I feel so alone, even when I'm wrapped in his arms.

"We'll find them, baby," he whispers. "I'll make it better." I cry at his words. There are secrets around him, the people he trusts. He doesn't have the slightest idea.

"Let's leave," I whisper. "Far away. You can leave it all behind. You don't need to do any of this."

His brows knit down at me. I ball his sweater in fists. "You don't need this life, you understand? You can have a better one."

He looks down at my lips. His eyes far away, painting the picture.

"Forget your uncles. Your mom, your dad, they're gone. Alice is finally safe. That's all you need. A new life. It's what your Mom wanted. Come with me, Edward."

He gently grins, like it's futile, like I'm the most naive child painting a scribbled picture of a fantasy life. "You should rest," he says.

I press my head against his sternum. And this heavy feeling of loss settles in the pit of my belly. I'll never see him again. I'll live on alone, wondering, thinking of what could've been. Him and me.

He leads me out to the room and helps me to bed. He pulls on the sheets and tucks me in, and I feel like I'm saying goodbye for good.

"Close your eyes. In the morning, I'll be the first you see." He kisses me. His lips linger, and tears flow as I press my lips eagerly to his. He won't be here in the morning. He'll be gone. I know this. I'm sure Mom knows this. She silently sits at her cot watching him from a shadow.

Her glare burns a hole on his back from where she sits. He tucks in by me and holds my hand anyway. He has no shame, no fear—he never has. He's his father's son, his uncles' nephew, and a Cullen to the bone. He does what he wants.

….

I awake, and the first set of eyes I set mine on were Mom's. She didn't say where Edward went. I didn't bother asking, not even Pete.

I guess Pete is here to watch me. I don't know. He mostly watches Bree.

She's not alone. Pete keeps to his promise. Bree arrives, and she has this lightness to her shoulders. She bites down on a smile to keep it at bay. Pete comes in behind her. He looks at me, looks at her, and makes sure she has everything she needs before he leaves to do God knows what. Even at noon, he comes back to bring her coffee. They already dance around one another, hushed tones, communicating through looks alone—like a couple who've been together for years. She shares her snack with him, the one he brought with her coffee. Pete finds a peace he never quite had in all the years I've known him.

When he walks out, I ask her when she'll pop out a few babies. She scoffs. "You're such a bitch." Then she hides a grin as we turn to the dated TV by the wall.

I think of the many ways Edward and I looked together. Not like them. We were never normal. Our fire burned; no romantic kindle.

When the hour comes for us to head home, I'm fueled. I think of all the ways I could slip from under Mom's watchful eyes to walk across the lawn. It's a plan. Only mine and mine to settle. It took me nights staring at shadows over the hospital walls to conjure up what I should do. Nothing, nothing came to me but one. There's no other way.

Pete parks the truck behind Dad's car, and I'm watching across the lawn. Dad steps out of his car with Mom in tow. He shakes Pete's hand for letting me settle in the back where there was more room for me to stretch out.

"C'mon, baby girl. I've gotcha," Dad says, reaching through the truck door. I take his hands. I take in his words. I hug him and hold on. Over his shoulder, I see the Cullen house, dark and quiet. Dad hugs me more firmly when he feels the brace turn to an embrace.

"I'm proud of you, and I love you. I don't know what I'd do without you," he says by my ear.

All I see over Dad's shoulder is a shadow of a man by a window across the way.

I nod at Dad and let him walk me toward the house.

Mom and I watch Bree and Pete drive away. Dad follows behind. More paperwork. More things to settle after two deaths in his shop.

I let go of Mom's hand. "Let's go pack," I say to her.

She turns to me, and relief floods her whole being.

…

I look at the clock. I look at Mom. She's gliding around the house picking up things, throwing others in the luggage, and going through clothes. She gets the essentials. She goes to the hallway closet to get more things. A bag for this, a bag for that. She's antsy, just like she gets every time we plan to go to the city for a weekend—this time it's for good.

All I can focus on are the windows; the dark Cullen house. It's rare that it's dark ... it's perfect. No one is home but him. I take a bag and head outside. I dump it in the trunk of Mom's car parked in the driveway by the side of the house. I go back to get another bag.

Mom is on the phone, hushed tones, telling Dad, 'No, we're not waiting. Yes, without you.' She argues. She's determined because this is the end. She's finally getting what she's always wanted.

The car is full. I step into the house, and she's fighting and fighting to get him to understand, all while she grabs this or packs that.

I pass by her and say, "Get in the car. I'll meet you there." She dips the phone, she looks at me with wide eyes and she nods and rushes away. Anything, anything to keep me on plan.

She goes out the back door to the car, arms full, the phone pressed to her shoulder. I go straight for that gun she hides behind the kitchen counter. I look at it, check the rounds. It's heavier than it looked in her hand the day she pointed it at Edward.

I close the front door of the house and painfully walk across the yard.

It's as if he was waiting for me. The door is ajar when I push and hesitantly walk inside. The silence alone is gripping. I think and think.

 _Bella, walk out. Turn around._

But my elbow nudges the door as I climb that last step.

"Isabella, darling," he says out of sight. I look around. The voice comes from the living room. I step further in and make a turn. I cock the gun and point, right between his eyes. "I guess my grandson taught you a few things," he says glancing at my hand.

"What have I ever done to you?" I ask. Rage surging through my veins.

"Enough." He nods straight-faced. He sighs after a while. "I just don't quite like when anyone, let alone a child, butts in," he explains. "Too much. Too fast. Too soon. You understand. It's for his own good."

I grip the handle hard. I think of all the times I did speak up. My thoughts laid out in Cullen meetings, none of them I was invited to. Only Edward wanted me there.

"I'll tell him everything," I threaten.

He chuckles. "And who would he believe? Surely not you."

I erupt. I take a step. His expression chills instantly. "Pull that trigger, and your mother dies, too."

I stop.

His brow lifts. His expression softens just as quickly. "You think it would cleanly end here?" He grins. "Such a brave young woman." He rolls his wheelchair closer. "I'll have you know that there are many more out there; loyal, family, far beyond this household who would finish what you started."

I quirk my head, heart pounding in my chest. "Family? Is that what you call defenseless people, forced to serve or cover this family's crimes? Living with a target on their backs, every day, to give you what you want? It's not loyalty. It's terrorism."

He shakes his head. "Family. Blood. The different one that runs through Emmett's veins—two bloodlines; a true Cullen, and a true McCarthy. My boy has always been the most loyal since the day I brought him home, bundled up, filthy clothes and blanket, the scent of a newborn still on the crown of his head. No mother to care for him after her death."

I can barely breathe. The barrel shakes in my hand as it dips.

"So you see, Isabella, this won't be a clean shot. It will be a very sloppy one. It will chase your heritage up to your mother's in Chicago and your father's—that simpleton. You don't want your bloodline to be wiped clean, do you?"

I can't speak.

He sucks his teeth. "That's too bad. I really like that simpleton, he's a good man. Your mother?" He shrugs a little. "She's had it coming for years. I've spared her for you. I don't believe a child should be without their mother."

I'm panting. I hold my side, all the bruises and fractures feeling fresh and new. I turn and run for the door. Uncle Jasper's eyes are just as haunted as I feel when I crash into him. His face ashen with the truth he's heard. He stands at the door.

He looks at the gun. He looks at me. He grabs me by my arms and pushes me out of the house.

"Go. Take your mother. Never come back," he fiercely says. His intentions to protect not expel.

I take the stairs two at a time and charge across the yard as fast as I can.

Mom steps into the back door out of sight. She hasn't spotted me yet. I wedge the barrel at my back, so she won't see my stupidity, what I almost did.

I slide into the driver's seat and try not to die here, out of breath. All the pain throbbing angrily across my middle.

I wait. I honk the horn. She takes too long.

"Mom!" I shout loud enough to ring into the house.

I look through the rear view mirror. A car drives past, and I hear it pull up and park in front of the Cullen house, far away, out of sight. Jasper appears, and he's leaving. Words I can't decipher are being shouted. He points and barks orders at the newcomer to stay as he goes.

He yanks on his car door and drives off, wheels shrieking. My bet is wherever Emmett is, that's where Jasper will go. A new family secret blows.

But he shouldn't have gone. He shouldn't have.

I honk and honk, and Mom appears. "Let's go!" I yell. She stops. She looks at me. Her instinct is to look up between the houses.

"What did you do?" she asks.

"I'll tell you if you get in the car! We have to go, _now,_ " I enunciate. She drops what's in her arms and runs.

"Bella, what is it? What's wrong?" Her voice escalates as I drive down the back way of the house. Rose bushes line an unpaved road to a main one. For years now, it's been Dad's shortcut to town when it snows. I never knew it would serve as an escape route. Now the drooping petals and stems are disturbed with gravel popping from under the car's wheels, and Mom's shouts to slow down.

She braces herself on the dashboard. But she doesn't know. I try to explain, but hysterics take over. Tears blur the windshield. The car swerves, and the bruises swell with pain suffocating me.

"Bella!" She pulls on the steering wheel. "I'll drive. I'll drive!" she pleads. She hits the emergency brake and everything halts.

"You don't get it! He'll kill us!" I howl. But she's pulling on the door handle and pushing me out. I look up at her from the ground as she slides behind the wheel.

"Get in. Hurry!" she orders. She motions to go around.

My knees are jelly, and where I kneel, I see that second car coming down the path behind us. It's far. Two heads are shadowed behind the windshield. The road crackles beneath the weight of the black car as it crawls to a stop.

I shuffle to my feet and run toward the front of Mom's car. Out climbs Major from the back seat of the black car far away. His legs strong, able, and moving.

My stomach drops like lead.

Of course, the lies weave tightly like the ties of his family.

His robe moves around his soft, dark sweatpants. He walks toward the hood of his car. The driver still, unmoving behind the wheel.

I slide into the passenger's seat.

"Christ almighty," Mom utters in disbelief. Her eyes glued to the rearview mirror, seeing the invalid coming to life before our eyes.

I don't even get my foot in when she guns the engine. But it's no use. A pop is loud. The car swerves. I scream, and we go straight into the bushes.

Mom dips. She pulls me down by my head. Her hand already reaching for a Glock under her seat.

Her arm extends, and she's letting those bullets fly. I watch mesmerized. Never have I seen this woman become another, a stranger, madness in her eyes. This is the day she gets what she's always wanted.

Our back window shatters. Major ducks behind his car door. I look, and I see it; his shoulder hit, arm red and unmovable. His face twisted with pain.

Then I brace for the impact. Mom fumbles to back up the car. The crash of metal is loud. They ram into us from behind.

"Bella!" Mom cries out as we rush further into bushes. Her eyes wide with terror. And right as the pops get louder, I know this moment has slipped between our fingers.

I pull the gun from my jeans and fire right back. Their windshield shatters. One round crack. The driver's head dips back. I aim for the passenger side and Major winces and holds his neck.

Mom has grown quiet.

I yell and yell for her, but she's peacefully leaning her head against the seat, blood seeping down it.

Everything is silent.

Gravel crunches by the car outside my door. I dive over Mom. Her door pops open, and we roll out. Our legs still tangled, inside the car. Thorns prick at us both. Her hair in waves over white petals. Her vacant eyes looking at me. And I cry.

Major staggers to meet the open window at the passenger door. He bends and leans his elbows there, a gun waving loosely in one hand, his other pressed firmly to his neck. The blood drained from his face. He's breathing heavily. Sweat glistens on his forehead. The same piercing green eyes of his grandson that looked at me every day stare down at me across the car.

"I realized I can't quite let you go," he says as a way of explaining. "But I didn't expect this. You and your mother …" He shakes his head and laughs tiredly. "Stronger women than I thought."

"You bastard!" I aim, but he pulls his trigger. I burn. I gulp for air.

Gunshots fire; not mine, not his. Major's head jerks to the side. The light in his eyes dims, just like that. His body sags out of sight.

I lie here and turn to Mom. She looks at me, and I look at her. The light leaving me the same as it left her. Maybe this will be my last breath. I'll accept it. I lay my head down and lie with her.

We fought this out.

We did it together.

Uncle Jasper climbs the bushes on Mom's side. He melts over her.

His laments are just as loud as the silent ones I feel inside.

…

 **End of 'Young' years.**

…


	12. Chapter 12 - Propositions

**A/N: Thanks for sticking through on this story. It's a challenge to get from A to B even though I know the end. Like gimme gimme hands trying to reach.**

 **SPOILER REMINDERS IN 3...2...1: Yes, it was Major, the lying non-invalid head of the family. He saw them as a threat. Yes, Emmett is half blood. More on him as we move forward. Yes, Jasper did have real feelings for Renee. A few chaps back Bella accepts Edward as Boss (and his ... breakfast) to slither her way into the family. She used to be his right-hand (wo)man. Yes, Riley was her ex, abusive at that. No, I never went into details about him, I don't feel the need to. He just popped up at the restaurant that time Bella, Sue, and Charlie were having dinner when she punches him (first chapter, and chapter 10; her closure around that) Yes, Ben from highschool is _Jenks_ an undercover federal agent. When I say Jenks, you say ... _Ben!_ **

**I love you. Seriously, you are loved. Let me know if you get it. Even if it's a "yup! got it" or let me know if I should explain more.**

 **Fucking hearts. Enjoy. *Said all this in stuffy nose voice* *Cough* *Whispers* _Omg GOT. One more sleep._**

* * *

 **Chapter 12 - Propositions**

 _I gasp awake. I'm fighting for air. I open my mouth and take it in eagerly. The high ceilings above me are fully blurred. Tears pour out as I feel every burn from the bullets._

 _Mom's vacant eyes stare back at me. Her hair in waves. Rose petals frame her face._

 _A dream. Was it? I don't know. All I feel is a caress. I look, and Edward is here beside me. He's looking down at me with worry. He hushes my cry._

 _"Baby," he whispers. His fingertips wipe at the streaks down to my hair. "Shh."_

 _But I cry._

 _His lips press to my cheek, my eyes, my lips. He is soft, and it's a contrast to the other day; the knife in his hand coated with Riley's blood._

 _"Tell me." He offers. He pulls the covers more securely around my shoulders as he tucks me close to his side. I lay a cheek on his shoulder and close my eyes._

 _"More? What was it this time?" He asks about memories. He encourages. He knows they're coming slowly. His hand skims my back as he waits._

 _He was right. His bed is bigger. We did move in it. Fell into it. Like I could fight it. Last night or ever._

 _But last night was a plan._

 _Now, my heart pounds, wanting to crawl out and bleed this truth—or dream? And I don't know so much anymore._

…

 **Two days before...**

He stands right by me. I'm shadowed. The silence is gripping.

I wipe at my cheek. The tears are of anger, not sadness or shame; just pure, unadulterated anger.

Maybe I should go back inside and finish Riley off myself. Why have others do what is my right?

Edward. He stands by waiting. He walked out after watching me beat Riley with my heel in front of everyone, my mind gone, all senses.

Edward's hand is stuffed in one pocket, the other fidgeting around his collar like his blood pressure levels skyrocketed. He sauntered over calmly, but it's the kind of calm that will spark and ignite any second.

"Take me home," I interject.

"That's not what I'm waiting for," he says. I roll my eyes.

He points a thumb over his shoulder. "An abusive motherfucker, you said? Well, I want to know every damned detail, don't you dare leave anything out," he says, the bubbling rage just under a thin layer.

I tell him. He wants to know, and I tell him every detail.

My confessions pour out, and it reels him. Well, it should. I tell him all of it; the verbal stabs that made me powerless, the forced sex on nights I'd kindly reject him for a full night's sleep, and then the physical bruises. After that one black eye, I was done.

"The guy takes women and does with them what he wants. He even gives them up to mobsters to do what they like … in public. At a restaurant table," I finish saying.

Edward goes a little pale with that one. He knows what I refer to. I was there that night with Dad and Sue when I first witnessed the sane version of him in the city, not locked away in his house. I saw what Carlisle did to Riley's date. I punched him square in the face right after.

Edward opens his mouth. To explain? To justify? He knows he can't. He swallows his words.

He takes his eyes away and charges back through those metal doors where Riley sits, and everyone waits. His head hangs low, but he fumes.

I hear the agonizing shouts from outside. It feels like hours. Then the silence comes.

My nightmare has passed on to the next life.

I don't think I've ever seen Edward this angry. It says something, because he walks out, and I see a blade still in his fist. Never has he done what he reserves for his men to do. But this, he did himself. He tosses the blade to a guard who catches it midair, wipes his hand on the guard's coat, and opens the car door for me.

"You won't have to worry about him anymore," is what he says. "Ready to go?" he asks, an offer to move on with my life.

So, I do, and I get in the car.

…..

I barely sleep that night. Mostly the gore and blood, but the lingering scent of Edward on my bed didn't help. Imagining what he did to Riley just rolled in my mind in a loop. His strong hands always were stained with blood for me. Most I never knew about; Edward always carving a clear, safe path for me, even when I wasn't aware.

It's morning. I turn my head over his pillow, and I hate myself.

I make breakfast with the leftover items he left behind yesterday, and I hate myself.

I make a smoothie to take to Sue's shop with more snacks, and I really hate myself.

I've never had so much food in my fridge before. It can't all go to waste.

Damn you, Edward.

"Damn you," I say it loud. I look up. The spot in front of the building on the street is conveniently empty. Come to think of it, it always is. Just for him? That wouldn't be a stretch. This man is a marionette.

He leans and pops the passenger door for me. His shades low to his nose.

"Time is money, beautiful," he says, and he's driving.

I drag myself in, bag and purse following, dumped over my lap, lunch included because there was even enough for that.

He glances at the lunch bag. He grins. He looks casual in a dress sweater and slacks.

I should hate _him._

"I don't need all your damned _leftovers_ in my house."

He frowns a bit and pulls out to the road. "Of course. My mistake. It won't happen again."

I narrow my eyes at him knowing full well his plan is to move me into his place. Some way, somehow.

I can't remember the last time I was in a car he was driving. He looks … better than he did when we were eighteen.

I sigh.

"Where's your posse?" I ask. He doesn't answer. "A day off? That's nice of you."

He shifts to a different gear making us bounce, and I can definitely see the car following behind. He's never alone. I keep that note to self.

"Work, please," I ask. He's begrudged but makes the correct turn. I don't know what plans he had for us today, but I can't be around him, and I have a full-time job now. Sue needs me.

He stops the car in front of the shop. Before I push myself and all the baggage out of the door, he pulls me back by the elbow. His nose just inches from mine.

"You okay?" he murmurs. He smells good. His shades are off, and his eyes bore into mine. _Concern?_

Concern.

I'm taken.

"Yup."

"You sure?" His finger pulls back stray hairs.

I take a deep breath. Definitely smells good.

"That's why you're here, to check up on me? You really want to know?" He waits. "No." I shake my head.

I take my arm back and climb out. Claire, Sue's receptionist, aka the skirt-flipper, walks by to open the shop. She gets a good look at this situation and stares—more like gawks.

Maybe I'm also gawking, but inside. I watch Edward drive off, and I've never really felt that concern from him before. Have I? I try to remember. It's weird.

Sue saunters in at ten, frazzled in her silk blouse and tailored slacks.

"You would not believe what happened to me this weekend," she announces for whoever wants to listen.

I can't help but smile. I wish I had her life. Simple. Fabulous. She goes off to explain a meetup with important people, more business, etcetera. I can't entirely focus on her tangent. She breezes toward me and with hands tightly pressed to her chest and says, "The shop is expanding! A new branch!"

Her smile is infectious. I can't help but smile, too.

"That's wonderful, Sue. Well deserved," I respond. She caresses my arm, looks at my casual attire—more like tired and unplanned attire—and kind of cringes.

"How was your weekend, honey," she asks.

I almost laugh, or cry, as all the moments come rushing back. Well, I bedded an ex and ordered to kill another.

"Uneventful," I reply.

She pats my cheek; her large ring thumps there heavily. She smiles and walks away.

Claire and I are noticeably quiet for the rest of the morning. There are no appointments this early on a Monday, but the phone does ring. In the slew of greetings, rings and holds to take down messages, there's one call that seems to sound the loudest, or maybe it's the shrill coming in after a pause of peace. Claire goes quiet after her lengthy, winded greeting. She looks over at me.

"One moment, please." She dips the receiver and announces "It's for you?" she says confused.

I've never had a call here. She huffs when I take long to react. I gather myself and take the receiver. Her eyes stuck to me, her ears pointed and ready also. I turn my back to her and stand away.

"Bella speaking."

"Meet me at the deli at noon. Order me a gyro; you owe me anyway." The line goes dead.

I'm … confused. Claire stares, and I play the part to shake her off. "No thank you, not interested," I say to the dead line.

I hand her the phone. "Telemarketing."

I'm all dried, blink-less eyes at my desk as I watch the clock. It can't be Edward. Not Emmett.

I leave five minutes before the hour and walk to the deli. There are no others around; it has to be this one.

The guy behind the deli counter looks up at me over all the heads already in rush hour. He jerks his head, beckoning.

"What will it be, sweetheart?"

I order the gyro and a wrap for me.

It's like he already has it prepared when he turns and slides me a white package. "That'll be fifteen. There's a table in the back waiting."

Oh.

I pay and shuffle my way around elbows toward the back of the shop. The guy shouts an encouragement, "Just ahead, sweetheart, passed the curtain."

So I pass the curtain and can't help but smile. Ben is leaning on a metal table with kitchen supplies. There's a table, just not one you'd sit at to have a quick bite.

He smiles and extends his hand to grab the package from me.

"You shit," I say. I lean by him and watch as he devours the gyro.

"What? Emmett doesn't pay you?"

He smirks around a greasy lump. He swallows, licks his lips. "Not enough, actually. Definitely no perks like you're getting."

I watch him and realize what he means. The word travels, I guess. People know how my weekend went after all.

"And? It's just a show, Ben. You know that."

He widens his arms. "For fuck's sake, who's Ben?"

"Sorry. _Jenks._ " I roll my eyes.

"Still, you have perks. Get what I'm saying? You need things I can get, and you can get things I need."

I narrow my eyes. "Okay."

"So let's get what we need."

"I get it." I enunciate, losing patience. "Now what do you need?"

He chews. "I need ledgers. I need accountant names. I need to know where else they're laundering money beyond the city. You get to see the inside of his palace. The information is in that palace."

"Excuse me? How do you know I'll be seeing where he lives?"

He gives me a look. "Bella, you were obsessed with the guy in high school, I'mbetting the feeling hasn't changed in your adulthood."

My mouth hangs. "How dare you? I was never obsessed with him!"

He pulls at a napkin from around the bundle still wrapped in my hand. He commences wiping his mouth.

"Then tell me, straight-faced, you two haven't already … gotten friendly."

I go pink, maybe more so from anger.

"It's none of your business how I get my business done."

His chance to roll his eyes is now.

"You're right; I don't care. Just send me the wedding invite from prison when he picks the font to his tastes, all right? I just have this proposition for you."

I cross my arms to listen. Biting inside at his ridiculous remark that I won't entertain.

"The FBI just found out about you. They see you as an asset, and they're willing to protect you if you're willing to help. You know him personally as well as the Cullen brothers. We're actually dumbfounded we didn't think of this sooner." He waves a hand and flicks the empty foil in a trash barrel. "All you have to do is this. Case closed."

"That simple? They're caught? Jail time?"

He grins. "Bella, we've been on this case for years. Way before you arrived, very much on time by the way. We're this close." He pinches his fingers.

"So, I help, you get a pat in the back. Possibly a medal for your achievements on trapping the most wanted men in Chicago, and I get what?"

He shakes his head like he's reminiscing. " _'Don't mess with Bella'_ still stands." He chuckles and sucks on his molar.

"You know, I knew you would say something like that. So, I'll I have to hang this over your head," he says, suddenly serious. "And I apologize, really, but seeing the look on your face when you confessed it to me, I have no choice."

I stare at him. My stomach twisting at the imminent reason.

"If anyone in this case goes missing or comes up dead, you're the first suspect. What I will let you do is find your mother's murderer. That secret, I have not revealed to anyone. But you turn them into me. If you take this into your hands, I'll put you in jail myself."

"You son of a bitch," I mutter.

He shakes his head. "You don't get it. I'm saving your life. You cannot do it alone with this family. They'll take you out, and Charlie. Forget Sue. She'll be dead the moment they find out. They're ruthless, Bella. I've seen things."

I feel irate inside, angry, mostly at myself—my stupid mouth.

But his eyes are sincere. The familiar pair that looked after me when we were kids are still there—a pseudo-brother.

I feel chastised, but I get it. He's a damned federal agent. He always liked structure and went by the rules, just not applying them to girls around him.

"I'm so fucking glad I didn't sleep with you when I had the chance. Dirtiest bastard I've ever met."

He beams. His smile infectious, bright, and warm. His eyes can't help but take me in from head to toe. "I regret it."

I huff. All the memories are now coming back easily. He was perfect for me, and he wasn't. Even with his full plate he still would've been healthier for a young girl than Edward ever was at that time. I look at him, tilted head. He's serious. I guess some charmers never change.

He points at my lunch. "Eat and get out of here." I guess I silently question because he explains, "It would seem odd to leave with lunch after all this time. Gotta play the part."

"Fine," I say, opening my chicken wrap and taking a bite.

I lean back beside him as he crosses his arms to watch me silently, this smirk around his lips as he watches mine, and this feels like the old days.

"So, how do you expect me to figure out how toget inside his place?" I say muffled.

He looks surprised. "Haven't you already?" I glare. "Show up in lingerie?" He tries again.

"You're an asshole."

He shrugs. "That's your department. You've done okay alone so far. Figure it out."

I think.

Well, there is one thing …

I groan. He smiles.

…

With a phone number mentally recorded, I plan to make a move. It's an elaborate plan.

I'll take a cab to where he lives, and I'll show up in lingerie.

I cringe.

I want to punch myself. Fucking Ben. _Jenks!_

But my hands sweat, my focus is shot. I get no work done, and it's close to the end of the day—there's no other way I could do this. Show up and distract Edward. That's the plan.

It took a while to figure out the information I needed without having to go to a Cullen. Claire was a hassle to get it from. I approached her desk after lunch to check on a past client, and her eyes could have rolled right off the back of her head if her hair wasn't so big. A single call to Sue and she quickly handed over a piece of paper with Edward's contacts. Well, more like the contacts of one of his men.

Piece of cake.

Now to gain the courage.

I rummage through my mind all afternoon about what I'll wear. The act has to be natural, believable. He'll see right through me if I come too strong.

I cringe and groan at that mental pun.

 _This is for_ _martyring_ _purposes, Bella. Not because you still feel him all over you since yesterday._

Like ads popping up in your social media feeds after you swear you just thought about a product, Edward pulls up to the door of the shop.

The little bell from above the door rings like an old call, and my stomach falls.

Why am I nervous? This was the plan regardlessof Jenks' plan; I get in, become his right-hand girl, and slither my way into his family.

He smirks, and it's like sunlight brightening the evening. Sue walks out, and she's all ogles and praises. He kisses both her cheeks.

"I wanted to ask your step-daughter out, but only with your permission," he says to her.

Sue melts. Claire probably shits herself. I roll my eyes but catch my expression. This has to work. _Play the part_ like Jenks says. I catch his eyes from under my lashes and smile pleasantly; my heart racing.

"And where, may I ask, is this fine fellow taking my step-daughter? Dinner? Fine restaurant? Five-course meal? Or straight to a chapel?" She laughs nervously, and pats his shoulder. Her hands continue to tug on the lapels of his suit, straightening the already sharp edges.

I do roll my eyes this time.

"Could we possibly ask the step-daughter if she's even available, let alone willing? She does have a mouth, words, and thoughts," I say.

"And such a mouth she has," Edward says back.

Sue chuckles, waves her hand. Claire mumbles a profanity.

"Well, this mouth could also say she has to go home first to shower and prepare."

"Before the chapel?"

"Sue." I bite. She covers her mouth and smothers a smile.

Edward walks over, maybe a little surprised I didn't object to dinner. I tense. He says, "Let's see." He pulls me from the chair and observes as he pushes my hair off a shoulder. His nose comes close, toward my neck, and ends in front of my face. "A hint of soap, flowers … chicken salad for lunch? Nope, you smell wonderful to me. I wouldn't notice if you didn't shower. Sue could lend you a dress. Right, Sue?"

Sue giggles and she's already making it to the back. I step away from him. "You're disgusting."

He viciously grins. "You've always smelled good to me," he says just so I'll hear.

He steps toward the door. "Have it your way; I'll be in the car waiting, _not_ patiently." He points.

Sue brings up a bag with a hanger sticking from the top; a dress inside. "This one was for New York, but New York can wait. Go. Have fun!"

She pushes me toward the door with my things and bops me on my behind. "Put out, pretty girl. Live a little." She winks.

My mouth drops. She lets her head fall back as she laughs and walks off. Claire huffs where she stands.

Edward's guard quickly grabs my things, and I slide into the awaiting car. Edward is in the back waiting, not driving this time. The parking spot up front empty to accommodate him, yet again.

He slides me close over the leather seat and wraps his arm around me. "Sweet woman."

I look at the shop as we drive away, Sue waving from the window excitedly. "Right."

I practically closed the door on Edward's nose as he followed me to my apartment. I did not let him in. Nope. Self-only moments. The frantic circles I run around to get ready make me dizzy.

 _Lingerie_ loops in my mind again and again, until I growl aloud and pull on a pair of plain, black underwear as I fire a, "Fuck it," to the air. Natural. Believable. No more than that.

The dress is brilliant. I pause and stare. Sue knows her shit. It's off my shoulders and floor length with a split. It's a lot. It feels like a lot. Like I'm doing it for him. Me; offering myself up. On a platter. Here you go. But I have nothing else to wear. Black heels I've had a while work fine, and a bun at my nape. Well, that's it. I'm not trying harder than that.

He steps away from the wall from outside my door, where he was waiting all this time. Probably listening to me grumble, hem, and haw.

He stares.

"What?" I ask. I self-consciously skim a hand down my dress and tug my fanned bangs to the side. He's serious; his face blank as he walks up to me. I'm ready for him to take my lips like he usually does, but he holds back. I kind of tilt my head up ready for it, then I catch myself. And then kick myself.

"I wondered how you'd turn out after all these years. Grown. A woman." He shakes his head. "I came short. Every single time. I couldn't possibly have imagined you like this." His expression pained. The aching void he's had to endure all these years without me.

I stop fidgeting and really look at him.

"I know. You too." I nod slightly. "Maybe it was a good thing I didn't remember you." His pain. I understand it. I couldn't have coped.

He leads the way without another word, hands inside his pockets. And I look at that. Why are they there and not seeking mine? I shrug it off and follow.

The restaurant is impressive — the waiters in uniform and the dim lights sparkling on silverware and wine glasses. Classical music stirs the mood and patrons unwind after a dreadful Monday. It's busy _for_ a Monday.

And then I see them, the Cullen men. All of them. I suck in a breath, and my steps falter a little.

Edward looks back after figuring I'd be right behind him. He goes to me, questions in his eyes. "It's not an initiation, Bella. They're simply eager to see you. It's been years."

I take a breath and look over his shoulder. "Yeah, well, it's been years for me, too," I say. "Thanks for the heads up." I jab. He sighs.

They all look over at once, and not one stays seated as they welcome me at the circular table. The VIP section is above a floor as the rest of the patrons dine around. My skin crawls. Everyone seems to look over. I'm in this perspective now; not looking from the outside.

Carlisle is the first to catch my hand. He makes to kiss it but pulls me in instead. His arm curls around me and he says, "You're more beautiful alive." I try not to flinch away when his voice is too close to my ear. His hair is silver gray and neat. His cologne expensive.

I don't respond but try a polite grin.

"I thought you weren't alive," he continues to say. "Jasper here told me all about your wellbeing and your sudden move to the neighborhood."

"Ah, right. I just needed to hide away for a while. It seemed like the perfect place." I glance at Edward.

He quickly guides me to a chair, and I sit. They all follow. Then I see what he did. He maneuvered himself between Carlisle and me. It was subtle, but did not escape me. I look up at him as he walks around me and takes his seat.

Jasper looks at me from across the way. His lips pull at the edges, but he takes his eyes away. "Well, it was a surprise for me also. Grown into a fine woman."

"Thank you, my mother would've said the same," I say. I don't know why I did, but it seems to get caught right in his middle. His brows furrow with the blow. He nods once.

"She would've, wouldn't she? You inherited the best … attributes." His eyes elsewhere.

Edward was relaxed beside me; now he's not. He leans into the table and clears his throat slightly, taking one hefty gulp of whiskey.

I look beside me. "What's up Emmett? Nice seeing you again." I say this casually like we're longtime buddies. He shifts uncomfortably. I don't think he voluntarily chose to be here.

"Bella," he murmurs in greeting.

Carlisle's brows lift. "You've already reunited?" He asks. He points between the two.

"Oh, of course. He catered to me and some friends the other night. A real gentleman. He taught me a good hand at poker." Emmett glares at my profile.

Carlisle chuckles. Impressed. He's sort of unhinged. His high spirit seems off, not the kind I remember. His smile is chilling.

"Wonderful. I forget you practically were raised together. Neighbors. I have to apologize; I barely remember those details. An old mind like mine," he says with a wink.

I wave a hand. "Your household was the most controversial one on the street. So much risky business. I doubt you'd remember any victimized neighbors surrounding the area."

Edward coughs slightly around his drink.

There's heavy a pause. I take a sip of a cold Martini placed in front of me and smile.

Carlisle booms with laughter. He slaps a knee.

"You know, I can't remember her being this witty. Have I been missing out? She's a riot." He asks the others.

No one answers.

"Say, how's Charlie been? Still massaging money into that little old house and shop?"

I laugh slightly at the condescension. "Retired. Living well in the city. I think the illegal ammunition hidden in the basement was the last of the remodeling."

Edward chuckles slightly, his lips paling. He scratches his jaw with a thumb. Jasper would probably excuse himself if he could stand. He looks dizzy. Even Emmett tugs at his collar.

Carlisle, on the other hand, goes wheezy as he laughs. I laugh with him this time.

"Ladies room?" Edward leans in to ask.

I shake my head. "I'm great, actually." He clears his throat and pulls on his tie to sit back.

"Charlie's a good man. Loyal. Always has been. But it was your mother who was quite the sneak, hiding them around the house. We wouldn't have the … motivationto continue the pattern."

I tilt my head. "My mother? Hiding what?"

Edward waves a hand. "Could we possibly get to the point here? You know I do hate small talk," he snaps. He suddenly molds himself back to boss. He speaks. Carlisle ends it there.

I lift a finger to protest. Edward catches my hand and pins it over the table. They all stare at that, but they don't see his firm grip.

"Bella, here, has asked to be hired."

Now I'm caught like a deer in headlights. I compose myself.

Carlisle lights up. Jasper looks confused. Emmett sits back and scoffs.

"To be your escort?" he sasses. I cut my eyes to Emmett.

I twine my fingers around Edward's and make the coupling more apparent. "Why? Do you not have one of your own?"

Edward glances at our hands, and his jaw flexes.

I laugh a little at their reactions. My hand slips away. "What I do want is to take over Riley's partnership. Whatever he was into, I want in. I want to take his name—anything connected to it—and wipe it clean."

Carlisle shifts in his chair intrigued. Edward looks at me under knitted brows. He wasn't expecting this. Honestly, neither was I. Revenge for Mom doesn't seem fitting as a reason. I've never been so glad to use Riley like he used me to get what he wanted. He's the door to this family. I take the chance and barge in.

"And what do we owe this ask? Why so fully invested?" Jasper asks. I look at him.

"Riley _was_ … a passion of mine for a while now. I know things about him you might not. He's a thorn I'll pluck—anything he's touched. And men in power never do succeed without women. You need me," I deadpan. Emmett crosses his arms and laughs.

"I think you all owe me that much. Don't you think?" I drive home.

"And you'd just accept this?" Emmett looks to Edward.

Edward, thinking he'd have the upper hand in this, sits back and crosses his legs. He lets out a breath through his nose and finds his drink. He's thrown; caught in the middle.

Carlisle watches him. "If this is what Edward wants, what have I to object?"

I revel inside.

Edward's attention is away from the table. He looks pissed.

"Well, Riley's … business didn't go well, which was the reason for his impending fall. We're just not sure what you could possibly do with it. It's in ruins," says Jasper.

"I know he was in finance. I would bet it's what he helped manage. A portion? It can't be all of it. You didn't like him, but you stomached him because his father is the wealthiest broker in the region. He was an asset to keep close, so was his son. Tell me, am I far off?" I challenge.

They look at one another. No one answers.

"So, how much did he take? I would guess it was quite a sum as he had the guts to come after you," I add.

Edward simply picks up his napkin, tucks a corner down his collar, and takes his utensil in hand. He takes a bite of his meal when it arrives with steam billowing up. His jaw gets going, and he's savoring all the melded flavors. He doesn't react to anything I'm saying. His juicy steak has his undivided attention.

Everyone is tense, waiting for the bomb to blow.

Jasper sighs. "Assumptions correct. It was a large sum. We got most of it back. Still … working on the rest."

I nod.

"Seems like we have a deal then. Work still needs to be done." I lay my napkin on my lap and pick up my utensil. The bite is satisfying.

The meal ends, and no one speaks further about it. Carlisle goes on about the old days, chatting away with Jasper who just nods and barely answers.

Edward is non-responsive. I glance over at him, watch his mouth in motion, his hands. He did not have any control in this arrangement, and he's having none of it. He's definitely furious.

Emmett stands after inhaling his meal and snaps his jacket off his chair. He leaves with no words. Carlisle and Jasper don't even question it as they continue their awkward conversation.

I stand and head for the restroom. Edward doesn't even look up as the other gentlemen stand to see me off.

My reflection staring back at me in the ladies' room is rosy red and alive.

I did it.

I bite down on my lip to keep the relief at bay. My heart is hammering all the same. Then it sinks. I head back to the table where Jasper and Carlisle remain.

No Edward.

"He had to step out; something pressing just arose. I'll make sure to take you home when you're ready." Jasper says.

I sit back a bit shocked. I down my drink. "I'm ready."

In the car on the way back, the darkness in the cabin is welcoming. The street lights pour in on intervals, and I get a glimpse of Jasper's staring eyes. He sighs slightly.

"Say what you need to say," I spit.

"It's dangerous. This isn't for you. Your mother never would've wanted this."

"Don't you dare ever refer to my mother. You don't know what she'd want, and it's definitely not your concern," I say with a glare. He looks away.

"I'll courier a phone if you ever need to contact us," he says ending this.

The car stops and I'm home. I climb out without another word.

I stand in the hallway on my floor after stepping out of the elevator. I'm frozen in place. I'm antsy. I have to mend this with Edward. Where did he go? Jenks in my mind, his pointed glare telling me to fix a furious Edward.

I punch the button to head back down to the lobby. One request at the front desk and I wait as they make the call for me from the piece of paper Claire gave me. I don't know if this will work, but I'm damned if it doesn't.

I recognize him, Edward's guard. He steps into the lobby not a half hour later, he looks around and spots me. Once he sees me, he heads back out to the street. I follow. A car is waiting for me.

"Take me to him," is all I say as I climb inside. There are no further exchanges between us. Traffic is light at this time of night, and we make it there quickly. I look around—a luxury building's parking lot.

The guard, who is probably in his twenties—tight shaved head, dark eyes, and mocha skin—is tall and fit. He's not much of a talker. He just leads me to a set of elevators after making a call through his earpiece. He leads me in but does not join me. The doorsclose, and he stands there as they do.

The doors open and the penthouse is grand. I'm a little shocked. This crazy man spends his time in his childhood house to keep up pretenses, and doesn't allow himself to enjoy all of this?

My memories crawl back to his high school days; old T-shirts, pants that barely fit him, and worn sneakers. He was always this rich despite the tattered clothing. The years it must've taken to get him what he paid such a high price for. He always deserved more.

My heels sharply clack on marbled floors. I find myself in the living room. A bar far to the right, a fireplace across the other side is surrounded with furniture that could house a large family. It's empty.

I wonder if his living spaces always feel this empty.

I turn, and he's standing far behind me, watching from behind a large kitchen island. With a mug in his hand, he leans on the counter top with his other. He takes a sip but keeps his piercing eyes on me.

I can't help but take a sweeping look at his bare chest. His night pants, dark and silk, fit for a king. His hair is damp and pulled back.

I dare to walk over, the island between us. I pull my jacket off my shoulders and leave it over a stool, my purse next. The time it takes to make it around the island feels endless. I let my fingertips glide over the smooth, cold surface.

His look follows, never wavering.

I inch closer. The scent of soap and warmth is just a step away. I use a fingertip to touch him. He's smooth, but hot in contrast. I drag it over his knuckles around the hot mug, past his wrist, up his arm. I trace the muscle over his shoulder to the spot I've kissed hundreds of times before when I was head over heels in love. I finish the journey at his neck. I remember the days. We were unyielding.

"I don't think I thanked you for what you did for me yesterday," I say. His hands stained with Riley's blood.

His breathing is deep. His nostrils flare just slightly, but he's motionless.

I take the mug from his hand and take a sip. And just like he did once to me—a girl in her nightdress on a Sunday—I bring it to his lips. "Sip." I know he remembers. He does sip. I take it to the sink and pour the rest out.

My hands behind me, standing before him, I tilt my head up at him. "Kiss me," I whisper.

He lets out a breath, his anger with it.

"You expect me to after that stunt you pulled?" he says.

I shrug a little. "It was the only way. You wouldn't have pulled the trigger. They wouldn't have welcomed me in. You know this."

He says nothing. I show my hands. "I apologize. I was impulsive and inappropriate. I'll accept … a pay cut. A pink slip? Whatever you do to straighten up an employee."

He crosses his arms over his chest. His arms bulge upward. Shit. I know what they do to employees.

I look around, toward the other room. _His_ room? I point a thumb over my shoulder. "Is there someone else…? Bad time?" I ask, pulling back. "Because I could leave. Boss-employee relationship standards should change now, right?" I wave a hand.

He doesn't move or object.

I nod. He really is angry.

I give him one last lingering look to conjure up in dreams alone tonight. "Goodnight, then," I say. I turn to leave, but he catches my arm and pulls me in. Those lips I've missed all day come crashing down on me.

No rush in this. He closes his eyes, and he takes his time. Those wrinkles between his brows say something. His firm grip says something. And I'm not sure he's ever let go of _us_.He wondered, time and again, how I turned out.

Well, I'm here. My feet are off the floor, and he's carrying me to his room, never taking his mouth away. I sigh, wrapping my arms just as tightly around his neck.

This was the plan.

Mine?

Jenks'?

He pulls off my dress. I pull that silk down his hips, and it slips my mind whose plan it was.

It's about this moment, as I crawl into his bed and feel his advance. His chest at my back, teeth on my neck. He takes my hips, and without so much as a warning, he's buried inside.

We move like we've been here before. We have. Us, young, pink and warm with sweat, darts stuck above his ceiling. Still, he feels the same. I kneel back to reach; his thighs, hair, and mouth, my nails digging in.

I'm wrong. He feels like so much more.

I'm not sure whose plan this was, but I really do mean every kiss.

…

I gasp awake. I'm fighting for air. I open my mouth and take it in eagerly. The high ceilings above me are fully blurred. Tears pour out as I feel every burn from the bullets.

Mom's vacant eyes stare back at me. Her hair in waves. Rose petals frame her face.

A dream. Was it? I don't know. All I feel is a caress. I look, and Edward is here beside me. He's looking down at me with worry. He hushes my cry.

"Baby," he whispers. His fingertips wipe at the streaks down to my hair. "Shh."

But I cry.

His lips press to my cheek, my eyes, my lips. He is soft, and it's a contrast to the other day; the knife in his hand coated with Riley's blood.

"Tell me." He offers. He pulls the covers more securely around my shoulders as he tucks me close to his side. I lay a cheek on his shoulder and close my eyes.

"More? What was it this time?" He asks about memories. He encourages. He knows they're coming slowly. His hand skims my back as he waits.

He was right. His bed is bigger. We did move in it. Fell into it. Like I could fight it. Last night or ever.

But last night was a plan.

Now, my heart pounds, wanting to crawl out and bleed this truth—or dream? And I don't know so much anymore.

Blurred images form over the ceilings. I'm frozen in place seeing them, as they unfold by pieces. Every gunshot. Mom firing back. Her eyes; dark and violent. Then they were blank.

I press a fist over my mouth and hold back a sob.

"Bella, you're scaring me." His brows knitted with concern, looking down at me.

I look at him, hitched sighs. He's not as scared as I feel. He never will be.

In my dream, he wasn't there to see his grandfather with a gun in hand, aimed at my mother and me. He couldn't have known.

I can still hear the laments: not mine, but Jasper's.

 _Jasper?_

I sit up exasperated. The fog pulling back and revealing him. Jasper crying over Mom. He was there.

Edward touches my arm. I flinch. He lets go and lifts his wrists to show he's hands off.

 _Bella, breathe. Calm down._ I look around. How do I leave here now?

 _Play the part_.

I sigh heavily. I bury my face in my hands and melt back onto the pillow. The dream can't be real. No. Dreams are dreams. They're images conjured up randomly, no reasons.

Aren't they?

Edward is just watching every morphing expression on my face. I blink. I come to.

I touch his cheek, down to his lips. I shake my head to reassure him. "Just a dream. It's nothing." I play it off.

I watch him. His concern. Genuine. Like yesterday morning. Now he looks at me the same way. I remember his words at my door then.

"You really did miss me," I idly say.

He's quiet. After a moment he lays back by me and clears his throat. The vibration deep and tickling my skin.

"Did you ever look for me, all those years. Were you curious?" I push.

I see his throat bob as he swallows. I run a finger over his skin there. His breathing rhythmic, calming. He thinks.

"No," he finally says.

I let the remnant tears slip away, and I pull myself up on my elbow. "Never?" He looks at me blankly from his pillow. His knuckles idly run over my torso to my breasts. He frowns slightly and shakes his head.

"Why?"

"I kept my word. And … I wanted you to move on; have a normal life."

I roll to my stomach. I look at my hands. "But then, I came back."

"Then, you came back," he affirms.

"I watched you for so long across the house, that robe, your grandfather's." I hint. "I wondered how you became so crazy. Now I think you definitely are. It was quite a show you put on."

He smirks faintly. He pulls at my wet lashes with a thumb. "I knew you were watching. I didn't trust you." He pauses. "Is that what you're remembering?" He's still skeptical.

I shake my head. "I was remembering Carlisle's comment. What did he mean 'Mom was hiding and sneaking?'"

He sighs like he's dreading this. "It's no big deal."

"Then, what is it?"

He closes his eyes to snooze a little. I poke his side. He speaks after a while. "Your mom was a badass, but a very terrifying one. She almost killed me once with a gun she hid in the kitchen. Remember all the ones I found that night, the shotgun under the couch? Well, they're hers. Yours. She was just being a mother to you. I … figured I'd continue the pattern in the basement. It was a great idea. That's all it was."

I'm shocked. Do I remember? It's foggy.

"Why would she want to kill you?" I smirk a little.

He doesn't open his eyes but simply says, "Because I was a little shit and deserved it. And she found me sleeping in your room."

I let out a dumbfounded sigh. He opens an eye slightly, and that faint grin once again appears.

"Edward," I begin after a pause. He hums in response, eyelids back in place. My nerves a mess. "How did your grandfather die?"

He opens his eyes, confused this time. He thinks on the random question. "Same as I would have if you hadn't run back to the house that night you remembered me. They came for him while we weren't there." He fades out. His eyes glazing up with memories.

"When was that?"

He turns them to me and observes me closely.

"Same day you stopped remembering. They went for you and your mother after they were through with him." His jaw goes sharp. "Bella, I've told you. I've tried to find them…"

I place my fingers over his chest.

"I know."

"You don't think it pains me? Enrages me? They took you from me. They took both of you."

I nod. "I know," I say calmly, but inside I'm screaming. My heart pounding behind my ribs.

He flicks the sheets off angrily and sits. He rubs his face.

I watch his bare back. Our passion still marked on his skin. I run my hand over them, kiss a few slowly, but I'm antsy.

I'm desperate.

"Take me home. Please."

He looks over his shoulder at me. "Forget your small, cramped home. Stay with me."

I smile. "That's ridiculous. I have to work."

He gives me a pointed look. He's serious. "You work for me now."

I might just die here. I need to leave. I need to find Jasper.

"Then I must tell Sue I quit," I say. I watch him look around for his phone. "And not over the damned phone."

I crawl out of bed and look for my dress. He tugs on the sheets I covered myself with and pulls me close. His warm mouth muffled against my belly. His palms grip my ass to pull me closer. I can't help but run my fingers through his dark dyed hair.

"Let's leave. Right now," he asks.

"Yes, home."

"No. Far away."

I push at his arms. "You're insane."

He dips his head between my legs and buries his mouth there. I grow weak, knees buckling, and he's not playing fair. He tugs on my hips, and I'm on his lap. I'm breathless, regardless of time and worry. I feel him, and he moves me. My labored breaths over his head. My lids slowly blink. And I instantly remember …

The ledgers.

I frantically look around the room: no desk here or paperslying around. A vast suite I didn't take note of.

Our labored breaths barely echo across the space; it's so large. Then he thrusts inside me to the hilt, and I groan, eyes close. I've missed this with him; nonstop, hours together.

I cup his chin. He looks up at me through lashes, but he grinds into me steadily. "Last one, then we leave," I say breathlessly. The corner of his mouth lifts impishly.

We don't leave until mid-day.

…..


	13. Chapter 13 - Paper Bag

**A/N: Hello again. Almost there; the end to this madness. I'll tell you when exactly.**

 **Here are the highlights so far: Jenks and Bella are in this odd** **partnership. Bella is still skeptical, but trying it out. She figured out her way to have a seat in the Cullen business ... using Edward's authority to do it. He was pisssssed. She made it up to him when she paid him a little visit at his penthouse. That went ... well. She didn't find the ledgers, but she sure as hell found out who killed her Mother. Memories are coming back in a rush, and Sue had news about her shop.**

 **Just a bit more tension geared toward the end.**

 **Love you for coming back. Thank you. More soon.**

* * *

 **Chapter 13 – Paper Bag**

"All that time and you couldn't get off his dick long enough to look?" Jenks yells. Jenks is pissed.

I shift, pressing my thighs together unnoticeably. The ache there, I feel all of him still.

"Fuck you," I spit.

"No, thank you. I think we both know you've done enough of that!"

"Hey! I'm not at your service here, okay? You want proof, why don't you fucking seduce him yourself?"

He glares.

I wave a hand, bring it to my lips. "I can't. I … I'm not strong enough. I can't do this." My throat clogs up. I try to hold back the tears. There's no way I'm telling him what I dreamed—remembered? Who knows what that was?

Jenks sighs. He weaves his fingers together and combs over his head in a frustrated sweep.

"Bella…"

I motion him to stop. "I'm not a fucking FED, all right?"

His head hangs low, hands on hips. "I apologize."

"You're damn right, you should."

He looks like he's about to have a coronary, so I throw him a bone. "Look, I'll give you one thing. It seems they have many people manage their … income. I might be able to get in contact with one, very fine, very wealthy broker who might know a thing or two. But I have no clue what's involved. I just overheard."

Riley's father is ruthless, just like his son was. I don't believe he'll give anything away, but anything to get Jenks out of my hair. I need time.

Jenks gives me a side eye, skeptical. I shrug like take it or leave it. He snatches his hat off the deli table and walks to the back door by the dumpsters. He turns, ready to say something smart but doesn't. He walks out.

I sigh.

My heels clack back to Sue's shop down the street. A better outfit to please her today. But my stomach drops in an instant.

Edward's car is parked up front.

Fuck. I have no peace.

I take inventory of what's in my hands; the uneaten salad I bought for lunch. I dump it in a trash bin as I pass.

When I get to the car, I look inside; a guard sits behind the wheel, waiting. Edward must be inside. The bell chimes on the door above me, and he turns and looks serious. Sue is herself, but she's not showering him with compliments. She's a little wide-eyed.

"Ready to go?" he asks.

"I'm not exactly done here." I let my hands fall at my sides.

He's annoyed when nothing's at his pace. He comes close and asks with grit, "You haven't told her, have you?" I'm caught. I don't respond. "Do it now," he orders.

He walks outside.

Claire watches from her desk. She blinks like she hasn't for hours, rapt with all the tension. She looks away. Yet, this time, she isn't full of disdain but shows a tinge of fear.

Then I wonder what he said when he came in here.

Sue is pulling on a client's sleeve. The shop has a few people milling about as she gets a fitting done.

I clear my throat, pull at my hair uncomfortably. "Um, Sue. Could I possibly have a few minutes?"

She tugs harder on the fabric.

"Honey, I get it. He has wonderful opportunities and offices all over the city. You can learn and excel. Go on, Mr. Cullen is waiting," she says, but she doesn't look at me. I purse my lips and nod.

"I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. I'll … continue our work as freelance. I want to see this through."

She looks at me. "I don't think you'd have time for two jobs, honey. It seems like he'll take up all of it. This will be a new career challenge for you." Her hand cups my chin. "It's all right. This is your chance."

My chance to fuck this up, or take them all down. She's right one way or the other.

She lets go and sighs. "I knew this was temporary. I guess you've spoiled me, that's all. I need smart, hardworking people around me, something I never knew I lacked here. This is good. I'll be making changes to my life just like you." I glance at Claire from over her shoulder.

I hold back a laugh. Sue rolls her eyes and chuckles.

"You'll do great," I say.

"So will you." She nods once.

"But you're angry with me," I point.

She shakes her head, her hands moving as she works. Tugging here or there on the model. "No. Just … worried for you, like any mother would be." She says this with a glance outside the windows. She turns to me. "Just be careful. Use your gut instinct and go with it. I'll always be here to fall back on." She smiles.

I kiss her cheek hard and grab my stuff.

"Don't forget the package you received this morning," she reminds as she presses a few pins between her lips.

I wedge the bulky envelope under my arm and kiss her again. "I love you," I say. Her demeanor changes. She smiles, warmly. The fabric in her hands drops, and she hugs me tightly. I have never said those words to her out loud.

"Dinner this week? Yes, your father included." She bops my nose with a finger.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Perfect!"

I roll my eyes and hear her chuckles all the way to the door.

"What the hell did you say to her?" I ask when the door to the SUV shuts behind me. Edward is reading a newspaper.

My next protest dies at my lips when I notice him. Glasses sit over his nose to help him read the newsprint.

I lean in. The frames are dark rimmed. He looks …

"Glasses? To read? Since when?"

"I just inquired about you, nothing else," he answers, ignoring my question.

I pull off the glasses. His eyes turn to ice with his glare, and he lets the newspaper sag. I place them on my nose and look at him, a slightly-magnified, angry Edward through the lenses.

I slowly give them back.

He snatches them away to slide them on. "First things first," he says, flipping a page. "I'd care for you to be punctual, respectful, and professional." He starts to lecture. A new hire orientation?

I sit back and straighten my spine. "Yes, sir." I utter softly.

He cuts his chilly eyes to me. I feel the weight, so I look over. "That wasn't sarcasm," I clarify.

He flicks the newspaper in his hands and continues to browse and rattle his discourse. "Respect at all times is vital. No games, no flirting, no giving me smart looks …"

"Flirting?" I scoff, jumping in.

"And definitely none of that smart mouth," he points out. "There are consequences just like with any other employee."

I'm watching the streets go by out my window when I feel him pull me.

"I will hurt you, Bella," he enunciates by my ear. "Understood?"

My eyes widen, watching his dark ones through his Clark Kent glasses. I yank my elbow away. "Understood," I mirror.

His lips catch mine without warning. "Good." He brings his thumb to my lips to dampen the tip and turns a page on the newspaper.

"Lunch?" he asks.

"I already ate," I lie. My stomach twists on cue.

"Watch me eat then."

We sit at a deli downtown, and I'm surprised he chose this place and not a restaurant he owns. The back table cleared out before we walked in; others don't seem to notice they have a cruel mobster in their midst. I guess we blend in with other patrons in work clothes stopping in for lunch.

He sits, jacket off, sleeves rolled up to elbows as he bites into a sandwich. I do watch him eat.

My damn stomach growling. I sip on coffee.

"Whatare we doing today, boss?" I lean on knuckles.

He rubs a few fingers to rid perfectly toasted buttery bread crumbs. I watch them land on the brown paper wrap. I drum my fingers on the tabletop close by, holding myself back from dabbing at them and licking my fingers clean.

"We? You mean _you_ ," he says after swallowing a mouth full. His tongue makes an appearance with a swipe. I watch that.

"Okay. So what, then?"

He shakes his head slightly. "Always so eager." He takes a bite.

I observe him. The memory of me getting in his car in the middle of the night for the first time to see what he _really_ does, filters back.

"Yes, I remember," I say.

"Do you?"

"The woman in charge of that building we went to. The one you used to sleep with." I jab with a smirk.

He pauses in the middle of chewing. He thinks. Then he continues with a hum, remembering.

"Older women." He mutters.

I chuckle. I was right. The bastard was sleeping with her. I was definitely the domestic, naive girlfriend.

"Was I just your backup, your … constant?" I ask. "What was I?"

"You called yourself my girlfriend, so I went with that."

I laugh incredulously. "You mother fucker."

"They came at me. Let's make that clear."

I roll my eyes. I'm bothered, but I don't show it. I watch the customers. The girl behind the register ringing people up. The middle-aged man who passes by and pats her shoulder. She smiles at him. I'm guessing it's her father; their nose the same shape, though it looks best on her delicate profile as she looks back. A jar sits by the register with tape around it. 'College fund' written on it, and folks drop bills into it. I catch her glancing over once in a while, hopeful, as the jar fills. It'll likely fill up to the rim by the time lunch ends. She's happy.

Edward starts on the second half of his delicious sandwich. He points an index toward the counter. "Monthly tax collection. Go. I'll wait here."

I'm confused. I raise my brows at him. "What?"

"Go ask the man behind the counter for the collection."

I do a double take. "You mean they give up money? To you?" I point a thumb.

He gives me an annoyed look.

"How do you think we run business in this town? It's always been done. No questions asked. Go and do what I've asked."

My heart speeds. I look over at the girl behind the register. My stomach is lead.

"Wait, wait," I pause. "You mean to tell me you guys have always done this? Monthly? Since when? How many establishments?"

He doesn't respond.

"You do this yourself?" I push.

He tilts his head. "You actually think I personally make these rounds? Don't be ridiculous, Bella. I have better things to do. I have employees who do this. One of them being you—right now. Stand and go do what I've said."

I'm frozen in place.

"This is what you did in high school," I deadpan. "Your first job. You'd hurt them if they didn't pay up." This explains all the scabs and marks he always had on him. He'd lift his shirt in class to wipe his face, and I'd get a peek at all the ominous marks on his skin.

He takes a bite of his sandwich. I suddenly feel nauseated. I watch the family up front as they go about their hard-working day, completely oblivious; trying to make a living.

"I'll take you back to Sue's," he says with a wipe of his mouth on a napkin.

I give him a look.

"When was the last … pickup?" I ask.

"Last week."

My eyes widen. "You're asking two payments from them … in one month?"

He sighs. "Bella, either get your ass in the car or do what I've asked. Don't waste my time."

This is his introduction into his … mess. A test. My loyalty, his validation.

I tremble. I feel angry, sick, devastated.

He throws his napkin on the table and begins to stand. I beat him to it as I rattle the chair under me.

I walk up to the counter, surpassing all the people in line.

"Get your father," I tell the girl. She's taken aback. She hesitates. I point. "Your dad. Get him." She flinches at the sharpness.

The man is bewildered, but there's a familiar dread in his eyes. "What can I do for Mr. Cullen? Soup to go with his lunch? We have refreshments."

I sigh. I look over my shoulder. Edward is nonchalantly popping the last bite into his mouth.

"Collection," is all I say.

He pales. "Forgive me, maybe you're mistaken. A young man came in just last week. He counted every bill."

"You're saying Mr. Cullen is mistaken?" I ask. He goes red. "Shall I have him come over and clear up the confusion?"

He lifts his palms. "No, no. No need to. Uh …" He fumbles. He scratches his balding head, looks around. He quickly takes the jar and pulls out the bills.

The girl sucks in a breath. She takes a step. He pushes her back with an arm. He raises his voice at her to go to the back and get more supplies. She swallows up all the protest and keeps silent. But she doesn't leave until she gives me a look that could kill, and I respect her all the more. I keep my face straight and stare her down even though I die inside.

He dips from the cash register as well and stuffs it all in a paper bag.

He hands it over.

"Next in line, please?" he says, dismissing me. He's angry. As he should be. The crowd barely notices our transaction with the orders being shouted and the noise in the deli. But I'm shaken. I know exactly what this was; an invasion, terrorism.

I turn to the table, and it's empty. I head out the door expecting him to already be in the car.

I throw the bag on his lap and sit back.

"Your chump change," I say.

He gives it back. "Your reward for a job well done." I don't touch it, but he does touch me; my cheek. A feathered graze. Edward is soft.

"Easy," he murmurs. I take a deep breath so I won't kill him. "And just for the record, you took up all my time back then. When we were together, we were _together_. Don't insult me." He says about _older women._

I let that sink in, just like my hand against the cushion between us. He holds on, fingers woven through mine, the entire car ride.

He makes me collect all afternoon. Paper bags pile up on the floorboards by my heels. My heart among them as I remember the shock of every face when I asked.

I remember every face.

….

The piles of tape and envelope paper are on my bed. The package sent to Sue's shop was for me today, and I know what it is.

Today was a long day. My heart is heavy. I didn't speak to Edward after the first collection in that deli. I'd hop out of the car as he waited and I'd walk into a shop, a bodega or gas station; All under the thumb of the Cullen family. Don't even try having a business without making it the business of the Cullen men.

He dropped me off at home by dinner time, no further comments or orders from him. I couldn't look at his face.

It's silly to have thought the things he does aren't horrible. That's the job; to intimidate, to gain power. Mom's warnings and arguments about this weighs on me now.

Deep regret.

The phone in my hand is new, straight out of the package. Jasper said he would send it to me to contact them if I ever have questions. Well, I do.

All questions, and all from a very vivid dream.

I recognize the first saved contact. Edward's guard. I won't be making that call. The second has to be the one.

One ring. Two. The line is alive.

"We need to talk," I say. He's quiet on the other end. "I'll come to you, but either way it'll be tonight."

"No," he says calmly. "I'll come to you." He hangs up.

My nerves are spiked. I pull on some shoes and walk out of my apartment. I won't have him come into my place.

I watch pedestrians walk about, and I'm numb. The sun is setting, and my heart feels the same. Just dimming with life.

A limo pulls up and stops in the middle of the street as a dark tinted window rolls down. I see a masculine hand emerge from shadows, beckoning me to come with a few fingers.

I hop in.

The air is full of tension and expensive cologne. He keeps quiet after directing the driver to just drive.

The limo is long. He sits on the side, a glass of liquor in his hand, wrist resting on the shiny mahogany mini bar beside him. His watch glimmers under the crisp white cuff of his shirt, the link there is onyx, surrounded by diamonds that glimmer, too.

I end up at the end; the throne to this luxury. I look around. A monitor in mute broadcasts foreign news; the stock exchange as a ticker at the bottom of the screen moves. A hoisted tablet by my chair. It's dark, and I wonder if this is where he does his work.

He crosses a leg over the other, and he swishes an ice cube in his mouth until it seems to dissolve. He gazes out the window, his tongue sweeping over his teeth. He finally looks over, skeptically observing me; head to toe.

"You never planned on telling me anything," I say.

He sucks his teeth. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's been the front, hasn't it? All these years. But I remembered. I … don't know what I did remember," I say with a pause. "But it's clear that the dream had a lot of you in it."

"I cannot imagine you evoked me just to get interpretations of dreams. I suggest you get to the point, Isabella," he says.

"You killed your father. You had no choice."

Jasper's stare is blank. He lets his eyes close as he averts mine. He finds an interest outside.

"This is when you tell me everything," I push, leaving room for his response. He doesn't budge.

"Why did you keep it from everyone?" I ask.

"Not Emmett," he finally says. "And I'd like to keep it that way."

"And now me," I add with a nod. He confessed it. I watch the streets go by just as he does and we're in this sinking silence.

"Don't make me beg," I utter.

"What do you want to know?" He suddenly remarks. "That I'm ashamed of my father? That I had an inclination, from the beginning, about a younger brother coming into the family suspiciously. Yet, there he was, taking up an old crib, eating at our dinner table; a part of us. I was a fool to let that oddity slip, so was my mother for allowing it. All because no one could ever question my father." He trails away.

"So, Emmett knows about his ... family."

"He was his little helper," he begins to say. "He did all the hushed jobs we didn't know about. The victimized, brooding boy feeling like the outsider, made to feel important, useful.

"He was Major's connection to the McCarthy family. Anything he needed. And that family watched their own from afar, being raised by the enemy. The times they begged to get him back. His mother …" He looks forlorn, sighing. "She was a beauty. Of course, my mother figured who she was after learning about a death during labor; town gossip. What else would she have done when she made the connection? She kept it quiet and took in the infant," he says. "She told Emmett. She couldn't live with herself."

"Hushed jobs like sending people after me?" I confirm.

He takes a drink and swallows. "Just like those."

My heart pounds. Of course, Emmett would be the one to plan hits against me. I can hardly believe it. I don't know what to think, really.

"Why my mother? Why not just me?"

He quirks his neck.

"The intent was always you. That, I knew. But your mother …," he says in wonder. "She was the fierce protector of her cub." He chuckles once. "Always so brave, but unpredictable." He looks to me.

He raises a brow. "Major didn't like it. I tried my hardest to avert his eye away from Renee. Boy, did I try. I couldn't possibly do that to her and her child, but I was outnumbered.

"We kept it from Edward. We would all have a target on our backs if he knew. All for a silly girl … with a mind so sharp, opinionated, and so poisoned. Really, we feared you more than our nephew. You were the tendons to his neck; turning his head this way or that. We couldn't have that. _Major_ couldn't have that.

"That was the plan. And I stopped that plan," he finishes.

I watch him intently. He swirls his glass with liquid, mind elsewhere.

"You came too late," I add.

"And not a day goes by I don't regret," he says right back.

My eyes blur. My throat constricts. "What the hell took you so long?"

He shakes his head. "God only knows. I had just learned about Emmett when Major told you. You, with a gun pointed at him in his chair. I thought you'd pull the trigger. I hoped you would.

"I was furious. It was hell on wheels to find Emmett and confirm it, or kill him myself. I don't know what I would have done if I'd found him." He pauses, swallows the bitter taste of the contents of his glass and his story. "I drove back the moment I realized my impulsive mistake."

I let the tears fall. "I watched her die," I say angrily.

"I did too," he gives me a pointed look. His laments were loud in my memories, pouring over her. "Two offspring watching their respective parent bleed out, only you didn't have to kill yours," he adds.

"Maybe I did," I utter at my hands on my lap. All my bad choices put her through that.

He scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous. The culprit was a terrible, old man with an authority complex. I've lived with my decision because I don't regret it. You should have no misgivings; you fought hard to the end."

I peek up at him from under my lashes. He said that with grit. Years have taught him to be at peace.

"How did your brothers and Edward take it then?"

He pours himself a few more fingers tall of liquor. The new ice cubes clink sharply as he tosses them in.

"Not well. Edward was worst off, but I figured he just mourned you, not entirely his grandfather."

Like sparks, details come back in memory. Edward's act as a crazy man derived from losing me, not his grandfather. The robe he wore was just a convenient detail.

I blink away remnant tears. "What did you tell them?"

He breathes deeply, not wanting to reply. I let the weight of silence settle right in for the long haul. I'll wait.

"I put my father back in his chair in our living room, declared the driver the paid assassin, and prayed it would all make sense."

I'm speechless. All of that to cover the truth.

"Why all the lies?" I finally conjure up the nerve to ask.

His stare sticks. Audacity in his expression. Ridiculous question.

"You did it for her," I say. "You planned to do it anyway, the day he set eyes on her."

He remains silent.

I sigh. I guess it was inevitable. Mom's days were counted. No matter what I would have done, they would've killed her anyway. He knew. He spared me because I was lucky enough to lose the memory of it all.

"We all did our part," he says as if he can hear my thoughts. "You avenged her long ago, I did also." He spears me with his words. "So, whatever you're looking for, planning, slithering your way in; forget it. Take the freedom you've acquired, and move on with your life. It's what she would've liked," he says of Mom.

I sniff up a cry and dry my tears with my thumbs. No more from this moment on. I'm done. "If you ever loved her, you'd know that's a lie. She'd tell me to fight like hell, just like she did."

"What I do know, Isabella, is your course. And you've been through this path before. Question is, do you want it to end the same? I won't be there to save you this time. Especially not your loving stepmother and father."

My stomach knots. I glare at him, his insinuation.

He nods. Takes another long drink until the very last drop. He places the glass on mahogany, taps a few knuckles against the privacy barrier so the driver can hear, and leans toward me.

"It would be a shame to ruin her career, the shop's expansion…" he tsks. "Everything she has worked hard for.

"I could tell her, one phone call away, that her signatures actually gave up all revenues to the Cullen family. And If I wanted, I could sell off her brand to the highest bidder. I knew you'd come eventually. It was easy to charm her with an offer I knew she sought for so long. One step ahead of you, sweetheart.

"And if you think that's terrible, just wait and see what I'd do to my old pal Charlie." He waves a wrist toward me. "It's up to you. History can repeat itself."

The car door opens, and I'm dragged out by my collar. I don't get the chance to react. I kick my legs as I try to find my bearings. Night has fallen, but under the dim street lights above, I recognize him. He never was a fan of mine. I know this now.

Emmett sees me eye to eye, but only because he dangles me off the ground.

Jenks just stands there watching.

…


End file.
